Her eyes are worded cruelly,
it’s in the glare; two lighthouses
flashing on a coastline face.
The left arm balancing two worlds;
holding and hiding, giving and taking,
gift, non-gift, apple, non-apple.
She queries the love of paint,
the brush, the hand, his eye,
knows it’s sad and she, pitiful.
Or, maybe she doesn’t think that
at all. Perhaps she’s planning
a dinner for two, shocked
she’s forgotten parsley, thyme.
But the snug fit of her terrier’s neck
to the gap of a flicked up leg,
content on the couch as a halved peach
in a bowl full of full peaches,
makes me believe, otherwise.
Passed from one to another, the dead
still warm, lips still blood as a berry
fruiting on invisible cane.
We are Christs then; powers gather
and the cot, our cauldron
and we dance the dance of belief.
Morning has flown as a dove;
white smoke rising to heaven
like snow tumbling back.
The Red Gloves
They’ve been there all night
fingers tucked in
as sleeping petals.
The only red
in a field of blossom white.
Flung like bloody rags
in a sterile room
or a heart
snatched from a lamb.
--Jacqui Corcoran is a Liverpool born poet living in London.