Sunday, December 30, 2012

Anna Ryan-Punch


Last time she was safe
a neat-fronted doll’s house
dragged tears past wet gravel
to whipped-up playground sobs
spread out a coat; sat under the slide
blared out of her head with
wine and iron melody


When she walked past
pretended she was a sister
come to visit. Then                                                             stopped.
Hunched in bus shelter
away from sunburn
stink of shit and bad plans

It’s a long wait home
forget the hours active
in scrawl and slump
keep the iPhone photo:
chipped out greys, blue
wooden calves walk
hours and hours and hours


Breathe through my mouth for weeks
Cutting off one sense too many
I draw the smell back into a grey
faecal fug. Predictively habit-forming
This chopping back wires into the world
No one lands in hospital
I prefer to disappear, block off nostrils
with the back of my tongue
My jawline alters a snip
You wouldn’t notice.
I smile as air whistles
through my teeth.

Punch drunk

I believe I need a fine feathered idea
almost no one has massive plans for coping.

You’re the second window I’ve kicked in
locked away in a toilet cubicle.

Eight years in a fortnight of therapy
is not enough to extinguish the rumpus.

If I’m lost, or I’m forgiven
I’m sorry. I beat up the bathroom.

At the sisters’ house I shattered
spun handles from green vacancy to red.

I felt like he was me, in his loudest voice.

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