Students, all women in our freshest years,
we settled on landings with mugs of tea,
never thought to lock our doors,
and, late into the night as Sweet Baby James
floated up the stairwell, we gossiped, fell out,
time -shared bedrooms for lover trysts.
Then she disappeared,
that girl of the fiery perm and Scouser sound.
We wondered in the silence.
Her space filled over
like a river after extreme rainfall.
I imagined her walking back after drinks at the Union,
in her silk halter neck and corduroy flares,
humming Joni Mitchell in her head,
caught in a clutch, dragged into a flowerbed,
calling for her Mum.
We stopped walking alone.
We avoided the garden. Then we forgot.
Maggie Mackay is a brave-hearted Scot and a final year MA Poetry student at Manchester Metropolitan University. She has work in various print and online publications, including A New Manchester Alphabet
View original post 20 more words
It will be my pleasure to poison Mr Rae
as him eats in the Great House.
The fools, Lord Belmore and Sir Willoughby Cotton
dance the Creolian hop a la Mustee.
I slave in his kitchens,
my belly fired after him rape mi in the scullery
like I was his peaberry fruit.
His boasts ride on fiddle jigs into the valley
where my baby sleeps.
Maggie Mackay is a brave-hearted Scot and a final year MA Poetry student at Manchester Metropolitan University. She has work in various print and online publications, including A New Manchester Alphabet, Bare Fiction, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Prole, The Interpreter’s House, Indigo Dreams Publishing and Three Drops Press.
cold in the shadows of empty warehouses,
in the indirect blur of this burnt-out november sunlight,
and i couldn’t breathe,
could only smell gasoline & approaching snow
and what i kept hearing in the back of my mind was lou reed,
was the velvet underground,
oh! sweet nuthin’,
the chorus going on and on,
and it was like church bells & stained glass,
it was like summer skies from when we used to live at
the ruined end of jefferson ,
from when you tasted like sugar,
and i remembered this while i crossed the field,
was tired suddenly, was old,
and a storm was moving in,
was pushing down from canada ,
and i couldn’t get warm,
couldn’t find the staircase or speak your name
and the song was almost over,
and i finally fell the last three stories & hit the mattress,
i finally heard the…
View original post 80 more words
THE PARASITIC VINE
Before he left his cave, before the ice,
He wrapped a living rope around his waist
And placed its root inside his vest
And then stepped outside into the wasteland,
Trod the stones for many sunsets,
Slept in corridors of rocks,
Stroked the vine inside his sleep
And dreamt that other world he left behind.
This green life borrowed from his blood
Its life. He bore its weight, its constricting stem,
Allowed it to make itself at home
Inside his skin.
When he lay down orphaned one last time,
Its dream fed off him in a foreign place
Where the half-light casts in shadows
Penumbra of strange haunted silhouettes
Speaking strangled tongues of wilderness.
We take the blouse
(Forbidden by mothers
Unknown by fathers)
From out our school backpacks
Tucking our slimness,
Or the semblance of slimness
Into the new shell
Over naïve shoulders
Behind the large shade
of the neglected tree
In case someone’s looking
Knowing that everyone’s looking
Hoping for someone to notice
Which is different than looking.
This hunger evolves into
The secret tattoo,
Off-center, upon the upper arm
Back shoulder, above the ankle
Only to find out after
We have been well-fed
There still resides the wish
For the blouse to remain forbidden,
And the secret tattoo
Kept from fading
There are still small pockets in this landscape left that have been naturally shaped by centuries to what one may see today. The changes never stop here, they are slow but they are are there, to me this is what I call lands harmony.
Green Lake, Cariboo, British Columbia, Canada_ May 2016.