nothing. or something.
How can I speak from this silent, still, chair;
the flesh of my tongue ties urgent words
to the wooden legs of this wingless bird –
and the splinters viciously ache and wear
my tastebuds like dresses in tatters, from
climbing trees, with muddy bruised knees
peeking through. I wonder, will you please
look at me. I watch her cut her thumb
on the paper plane she has folded
tighter than her legs can fold inwards
at the glance of a stranger, or winter
setting in. I knew a small girl moulded
to the trees and sky, she doesn’t know
fear yet. She doesn’t know the cold
trickle down past your spine, that
congeals the blood and holds skin
taut, like the quiet between
something and nothing.
How can mouths move in this quiet –
this felled forest lying in the bath,
slowly drowning, and the very last
standing, bent, cowering: a riot
was anticipated, but never arrived
because the hands that tried, tied
themselves. Fingers articulated by
the colours of success on screens
and declarations from magazines
and the very hands that hold you,
cajole you to sleep when your eyes
aren’t tired and console you when
you’ve fired your last bullet into
nothing. Or something.
Jessie Summerhayes is a published poet and spoken word artist whose poems seem to grow from her unconscious preoccupations: telling the stories she hears whispered by natural world around her whilst also juggling with the distinctly human tales. She studies English and Related Literature at the University of York.
The Literary Forest Poetry Magazine 