Jackson

yoga, said the teacher, translating a sutra,      is the mind      focused      on one      thing      alone fingers on keys eyes on screen      thoughts      in the breaths      that make a      thing      a poem First published in foam:e Read more

with      I don’t know how      to talk to you my clothes on First published in foam:e Read more

I dreamed I had a stillborn baby and it was a baby girl but she was just a lump of flesh really and my mother had organised her into a box with an address label something like To Death 15 Death Avenue Somewhere First published in foam:e Read more

as he talks he blinks the eyelashes touch the soft slope above the cheekbone and yet again —oh not again!— i’m lava from womb to larynx An earlier version of this poem was published in Poetry for Public Transport Read more

Gentle hairsmell, special rosy skinsmell. Nose on cotton bosom. One big arm under legs, one around back. Going upstairs. “Time for ni-ni’s now.” Pushing the high white door. Walking across the blue floor. There’s Teddy in the corner. There’s pink blanket. There’s the white bars. Kisses; laying me down; snugging Teddy in; lighting nightlight with… Read more

This is the point from which I always leave I lock my baggage into a box to free me while I wait The key is a number A secret printed on a slip of paper My instrument won’t fit I have to carry it This is the point Under the table my instrument crouches in… Read more