When she
skips ashore a-singin
swingin mace n mournin star
hums, petulant
drummin on cocoons
hung downward, bedward
safe n slinkin soupy
stuffed neatly
gleaned n spoilt
blue wailin on the wind
that feels so good, oh,
packed against the skin, so

it’s clear
to the bottom
the junk room cupboard ocean
drowns the mewlin phone
chrysalis cracked & leakin
& the bloody knockin guests

when she
comes she bleats
that dirge, her nickname’s
honey (though she’ll use
just as ugly:
debit, truth
& neural pathway)

when she
sees herself in glass
her hackles lift n ripple
outa rhythm
& o’course the cupboard opens
new lunar moths a-singin
stinkin o’kelp n bedclothes
elbow out on wings
o’wrinkled tales
ya gone n inked yerself

so when her cupboard’s hull
scrapes the strand in tune
stand wide kneed and waitin
armoured expectation
stay
the cacophony of sands
from her mace n mournin star
a-spiral in the grey

cause she’ll come
a-croonin’
anyway
anyway