© Erica Stretton
On Breathing
There is no air in me, she says
her flushed cheeks turned away
no air for words
the night presses in on us
I overdose her ignore the prescription label
when she stops talking
I run a red light
no way to mirror the receptionist’s calm
the pounding my heartbeat counters
the doctor’s running feet
finger pinch, they say—it won’t hurt
but she is asleep
under the mask
cheeks flush slowly and droplets enter the lungs
ventolin – steroids – pale lifesaver rings
she can take the mask home if she likes
do we need a reminder in the dress up box?
one day you may be too slow
there are too many of these instances
prescribe something else/dehumidify your house/can we refer to a specialist/keep her warm/don’t take her out in the night/no swimming in winter
but she ran the cross country last week
and only needed water
Guilty
Wearing sweats, the hurling rejection of vomit
rhythmic swash and twirl of sheets around
the grain of my skin prickly, roughened by handsoap
A radiating heat + an internal pressure cooker
petal touch of infant skin
seek comfort with throttling arms
wind flutters, falling into the chimney
baby smile like a light behind a curtain
waterfall of bodily fluids
tumble tumble
lemonade on your breath, acrid
If I could escape
would I truly be your mother, again
with the prickle of rain on my eyelashes, the prickle of moisture
the wind’s warmth my friend
it murmurs urgency: mummy, mummy…
A Feast Made for the City
The table is set, a side of lamb, potatoes roasted to perfection
but we are underneath
A whisper behind the sideboard, horseradish sauce sliding down the tablecloth and dripping
a fork forced into wood. A wave wobbles through the ceiling
dust takes hold, shuffling in past nose hairs
can we see the cracks
house
of
cards
deep
oh so deep
towards
crackled riverbed
I feel the solidity
of the earth against my cheek
Something
is dead in the corner
crushed
we were unbroken
now we are making casseroles without water
My mother retreats to her kitchen,
And before she has finished there are fifteen boxes of biscuits ready, ready, ready
Will there be cucumber sandwiches
I fancy a bit of crunch
Ready
for neighbours
For the dispossessed
Cut. Like a swathe of acupuncture needles
This is the food of dust.
Can we book a table for seventeen and hope the cracks don’t follow
…. And then you came, blue, but without the fine cobwebs that covered the faces of those who ate
through the cracks
but you knew nothing and you laughed
