New Poems from Sadie Maskery

So

should I say that the sound 
of your name on another's lips 
is the thinnest blade -
ice, or spun sugar -
gently penetrating some small
secret casket, a neat trick,
I am a magician's doll
pierced by syllables,
or should I say
that your bone and muscle
shaped through shirt,
collar askew, make my
sinews sing ecstatic
despairing songs - should I say
the shadow of your cheek
makes my heart groan 
with desire or should 
I say, 'Hullo, been a while,
Nice to see you,' and smile.

Allotment

It wasn't that he didn't tend his plot.
Each day he would sit in the office,
letting insults sink into his skin
with a smile; process data,
the numbers reflected in his eyes.
Each evening he would dig
the bare ground, until ten. In summer
the sun would bleed into dusk
over his spade patiently turning the sod.
In winter, the starlit street would be still
except for, behind the dark hedge,
the steady thunk and grind of earth 
twisted and replaced. No seed.
No green shoot or delicate tendril.
No fruit or wriggling worm to tempt the birds 
that watched in silence each rolled clod.
No song. 
Just his foot pressing down, a ceaseless 
shovelling, in rain, snow, baking heat.  
Remorseless rhythm resonating, the 
driving in, the heave, the brace, 
turn at the fulcrum, release, wetly slice
or shatter in dust, he knew the underflow
below his blade, he felt its tug. He dug.
Patient. Things buried deep by time's tide
became flotsam, he dug. He dug. He dug.
Small things would clink against the steel. 
He would bend, pick up a shard of white, 
a grey rag, something decayed 
but persisting faintly in his palm.
At the office sometimes he would hold
an oddment still smelling of earth.
Smile. Squeeze it to shapeless clay.
Stare at the screen. Wait patiently
to dig again.


Bio: Sadie (@saccharinequeen)
Sadie Maskery lives in Scotland by the sea with her family.  Her writing will be found in various publications both online and in print, and she can be found on Twitter as @saccharinequeen where she describes herself, optimistically, as "functioning adequately ".

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: