Imposter Syndrome
the
nacre/ the floating lotus/ sliver of time/ inhale
a straightening of the back/ chance would be a finewhat you know you don’t/ hide & seek/ flavoured gloss
now the second hand/ now the click & point/ book I
a cartel of flowers/ a wreathe, in & out/ the splash
a word, lonely in its snow/ investment/ a stump
what you cut out of the hours/ a raggedy duo/ lip & hip
yesterday I wasn’t born/ an eiderdown/ my mother, pressed
attack of the aperture/ a shape you almost/ figurative
blonde over the greys/ your head tipped back/ chin, peaking
bring me green tea/ pond in a cup/ fishing/ bring me
patchy clarification/ easy speaking/ a mouthful of pearls
Orange
We peel and part it,
this timetabled day,
each task a living segment;
rich in its sac of skin,
each hour of the globe
a lung or bladder or womb,
connected by tissue;
white pith – silent
and papery as prayer,
tasteless, even bitter
with the code of itself,
the bright sun’s buffer
and innocent stuff of its birth
sloughed off untouched.
Resize
velvet pouch/ the year’s swell/ cracked shackles
O patrimony/ naked, without/ a gradual stack
pastry/ stuffed rafters/ a family tree
burgeoning/ day-dresses/ estimated price
a pig in a poke/ protein-packed/ not a matter of feel
harvest moon/ hands full/ travelling light
soft as gold/ fat as butter/ wait & see
after the death/ a dove/ unease the day
easy to forget/ chicken or egg/ head & shoulders
little engraved hearts/ beyond the veil/ inside the rim
book of hours/ tree-rings/ photo opportunist
ten seconds/ happenstance/ barometric pressure
light my eyes/ lie for me/ frieze-dried
premium skincare/ bed no breakfast
a respectable woman/ spectacles/ tide-marks
open house/ conflict resolution/ will it fit
Anaesthesia
I was away for a while,
and you slid back the bolts;
unconsciously I felt you lift
my heart into your boat,
and while I swam in poetry
you turned its blood-jet low,
re-fashioning a harbor
for my drifting self to stow;
your hands were deft and sharp
at knitting in the light
and I was open to your craft
of making rough things right;
such is the pledge you take:
this death is but a fleck
You reel my body back
to heal itself with breath;
then as the morning calls me home
I wake to the dream I know.
Untitled
slipstream tonic/ first time for everything/everything
cut-up/ black, unsweetened/ the lure of the cover/ gold
alphabet city/ the city as map of the body/ unlit
part of an artery/ closet encounter/ blue funk
the schedule, delayed/ the interim manager/ fate
suit & tie/ some childhood operation/ lovely music
nothing that urgent/ slow-dance ticket/ limbo
a massage/ wind chimes/ horrible thirst
an apricot nestled in pastry/ a yolk/ gestation
the words on your tongue/ kaleidoscope/ host
refreshment/ the button is anything but
the cycle of hope/ the endless list/ the jump
integrity/ the leafing through/ atonement
the aperture/ the overture/ the drift
I was only being honest
the astringent rinse
the spike in pressure
the coverlet
the several ragged skirts
the midwife’s hips
the gnat-pocked apple
the cards’ slip and flicker
transparency, ticket
your word against mine
the space in the creed
the quixotic dip
the millstone
an unlucky draw
the gap-stone style
whirring spokes
the hapless acts of charity
artisanal bread
a crack in the market
the stain of art
the graze of the lost
the cut of dissent
epistemological waiver –
strabismus
Sarah Law lives in London, UK, where she is an Associate Lecturer for the Open University andelsewhere. She has published five poetry collections, and edits the online journal Amethyst Reiew. With recent or forthcoming work in Stride; Ink, Sweat & Tears; Psaltery & Lyre; Amaryllis; and Saint Katherine Review, she is interested in saints, sinners, and the twists and turns of language.