Siobhan Tebbs
Two Months In
Once I was on a green peninsula,
wings of dream-sized buzzards
filling up the hills,
breeze playing me like a flute.
Once I was out in the crisp light at daybreak
crunching down a gravel path
because something had to be done.
Once I was inside the warmth she weaved
around my recalcitrance.
Now I cling to my sheets until dawn,
when the roof rises to bear my feet,
my feet to carry my caged mass.
Barefoot in a heady shamble,
I gaze at the city
that sprung up while I slept,
terracotta heating my soles,
sun tasting my crown.
Every lonely death rings out in the bountiful silence.
Now the sky speaks.
It says:
Tell me about the weight moving through you.
What do you clutch for on the back of a horse
as it wanders loosely away from its stable?
How do you make the block of heat breathe you?
How do you spin a stone into dark waves?
How do you stay where your catches
are sometimes just out of reach?