hook

a hook for an eye
this ribbon for a slip

there’s a pigeon in the pot
and tree makes the room 

your foot on the boards
your head in the sky

no mind if your stockings snag
are splinter-caught

the red thread
frayed or snag

walk now on swollen feet
on feet that are bound-in

with red and orange 
with stocking threads

these can be mended
these can be made whole again

you wouldn’t even
notice the tear



spool

red thread unravels in its wooden box
sepulchred with:
  loose sequins
  button-bones
  needles
  wires
a furled tape measure

theres a jawed scissors for cutting rough cloth and linen-stuffs

I am two:
              my bisection is equatorial
not a vertical splice or gather-to

walking broken-footed does little for my mermaid humour
I’d rather lie in three: head  torso and bottom-half :

but they disallow me the luxury
they have made this dress for me

their cunning craft formed the exsosexo skeleton
of my thigh-gap emblazoned with its stone whorl

© Chris Murray 2016, 2021 

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