We'll have our secret festival,
I will light candles for reckless women.
Curse then these fingers of poetry editors:
They stop me writing from the tongue.
Salt of coastal breeze swelling my chest,
Flattery is matter-of-course until despondency.
Running for a bus despite fumes, jumping a wingless pigeon,
Searching for my reflection if he's a friend.
But if I'm lucky - a new mouth, a reader
Who puts down a read to have me,
Permitting my skin (oily, downbeat)
To burgeon until farms go brown again.
I am a tang for the women
Whose names I recite in the rain.
The only child next door has grown.
I saw him inhale, palming a whiskey.
I wanted her, whoever she was in his brain.