Cloth by Marie Lightman

And it starts to snow. Flakes stick to hair loose
from her veil as she stands on the plinth.

Her shroud on a stick. A phantom with no
eye sockets, she sees all of you.

Snow slides off a branch, she blinks and is grabbed,
imprisoned, for the will to show herself.

She leaves behind indents in white. Others
will come after and stand in her footprints.

Folk Songs by Marie Lightman

Connect over Christy Moore, in half way
house. I share that I can play Spancil Hill
on the penny whistle. He gets out his guitar
and strums a few bars.  He talks about how methadone
is not a satisfactory replacement, I reply he is doing well.
Share stories of campfire singing and I am briefly
not his warden, but someone who got a bit deeper,
enough to give me his Christy Moore book of songs.

Brexit Attitude by Marie Lightman

Nearly deserted bus station, Newcastle
on a Sunday night. Homeless bloke asks
bling bloke for a tab. He without a moment
to think “Mate you need to sort yourself out,
get a job, clean yourself up, you should be
ashamed of yourself” then bling bloke walked
off, leaving the fellow crumpled in a heap, like
some empty crisp packet.

Early Morning by Marie Lightman

Wake early, sunlight streams through
the gap where the curtains don’t
meet. Plays with dust particles
in the air before it falls on your
bare shoulders as you sleep.

I move my body into your shape, close
my eyes briefly, sit up carefully, so
as not to disturb. Then walk naked to
the simple set of three drawers.

Sit next to them cross legged, half
glimpsing my reflection in the
upright mirror. You stretch
and expose a bit more
of your chest.

I put my hands on the lower
drawer, I know to look in this,
just know and slowly pull
it open. Hoping for
some resistance, but it slides
open, like a well made box.

Swallow hard and you cough, which
makes me jump. You’re eyes
flutter. I take out things, turn
them between my fingers.

Two stemmed glasses, one with a
shocking pink mouth
print, two patent white
high heeled shoes, size
7. Big feet, I’m a 4.

You’re awake, eyes boring
into my back. Indignant
I have found out your secret.

Before you can say a thing, I pick up
the shoes and throw them out
of the window.

Hope Street by Marie Lightman

I turn the key to
the studio at 12,
you a hedgehog
on the floor, prickly,
hiding twisted
innards.

I know not to
trust you, you
can easily
switch, from
that sweet
smiling guy, the
one that
I met at 19.

to the one
who after I
left, shouted me
down, from
across the room,
at The Cardiacs
gig, infront of
of my friends.

The one that
didn’t leave
me alone, until
my fiver was
safely in your
hands, so you
could spend it
at the bar.

I berate myself,
for feeling a thing,
you beg, collapse
on the floor,
infront of the
Red House’s
reception door.

I try to reason
with you. “We need
to open up, that
metal band will
be here any
minute, wanting
to record”.

“Stop, just stop,
you, know I
have had enough.
I should have
left that night,
instead of
crawling into
John’s bed,
knowing I would
see you again
in the morning,”

“Love, you
always said that
as a sorry to
make me forgive.
Look, I have had
enough, you can
have it all, I can’t
be bothered to
see you anymore.”

I scream ” Bastard
I want my fucking
Pink Floyd, my
Abba and Flying
Lizard’s Money,”

The twat, just
keeps crying,
then stops,
as I lean to go
for the record
case, he returns
to form, postures,
threatening
again.

As I close
the door, I
think it’s ironic,
that the studio’s
street is called
Hope, when in
the end it had
become the
site of my
prison.

Dear over the road by Marie Lightman

Have you noticed me yet?
I move in to your steps as they caress
the pavement that you tread
on the way to the 45 bus.

Have you found what I left
in your brown leather bag,
something which wasn’t
there before, which if you
understand it belongs there now?

Have you closed your blinds?
Your form makes shadow puppets
for me as I watch your bed routine
tracing your outline with my finger on my knee.

Have you smelt me when I sit
behind on the bus wearing
eau de cologne, cooling to the skin,
distinct covering the musk that
is as close as your neck.

Have you remembered me yet?
I sat next to you once the driver
was new, a novices ride,
kept getting thrown to each other,
that’s when I knew as my leg touched your thigh.

I got off just behind, with enough distance to follow
you to your door and see you enter your flat
pulling your blind fully up you stretched in to the sunlight
standing there as a statue art nouveau,
staring directly at me.

Have you found it yet?