She wakes up to the superiority of hay,
its fragrance rain-damp, sun-dry;
the scratch of straw, of warm breath
on cheek, of apples and sugar lumps
sucked from her fingers, savoured
with strokes of a lavish pink tongue;
the rust-proof finish of warm skin,
wild mane, tamed to curry-combed gloss.
The woman who sold her garage to buy a horse
finds out her palms are shaped for the slip
and pull of reins, ready to swap the swank
of upholstery, alloy wheels, for the toughened
calluses of pitchfork, stable-broom,
for the creak and clank of saddle and bit.
She turns her back on oil-slicked cement
revels in boots mired in manure;
finds her stride is longer; thighs braced
to rise to the trot; tosses her head
like some atavistic centaur, so tall
in the saddle, the clatter of hooves
below could be her own.
WENDY KLEIN (published in Magma 44)
DOWRY
I bring with me my grandfather’s apples –
brushed with newsprint, fingers
and heat – packed with the tenderness of children,
wrapped as though made from glass. I bring
with me the engine hum of wasps
and windfalls, the quiet-cold earth;
his dugout, his shelter – its walls,
its cupped, dark air still heavy with war.
I bring with me the imprint of flowers,
of lime-scented grass; his stooped back,
a Spitfire sun in his hair. I bring with me
tang and core and seed, the blush of skin,
the silent season slip –
rain that beads and gathers like harvest.
CLAIRE DYER (pending publication in 'Jericho & other stories & poems', Cinnamon Press, September 2012)
DEGAS WANTS TO PAINT ME IRONING
He says it’s wonderful to watch me,
I’ll just bet it is
when I’m the one who’s working.
He’s going to pay me, pay me to pretend
And now that I’m pretending
I have time to wonder
how my ironing has changed.
First with little flutters of the heart
rounding the collars, love details
for the man, the loved one.
Some days my belly so far out
I’d barely reach the table,
slow heavy sweeps just shy of burning;
I was tired in those days.
Then my first deliberate scorch,
joy of a brown triangle on linen,
that smell a second before smoke;
ha that was wickedness, his favourite shirt,
he slapped my face for that, but it was worth it.
And ironing some things for the last time,
small nightgowns of disease.
How carefully I did them
folding my heart into the pleats,
pressing my good-byes into the sleeves.
