Daily Archives: September 7, 2015

Family Photos, 1879 by A.S. Ford

I am not a silent poet

The petticoat slides down

her breasts and legs,

the corset is cut.

Click … click

Thirteenth birthday a week ago,

ginger cake and bitter lemonade.

Now locked in the secret room

with her father’s silhouette.

Click. Click.

Sprawled on the bed,

a death pose,

he throws her a single sheet

to hide one thing but show the rest.

Click. Click … Click.

She watches him while he directs;

too scared to touch her

too eager to stop …

Click.

Says she should forgive him

that it is somehow normal.

.

..

Later

he will remove his breeches

for those framed moments.

While she cries, wondering

how long until

                        those won’t be enough.

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Family Photos, 1879 by A.S. Ford

I am not a silent poet

The petticoat slides down

her breasts and legs,

the corset is cut.

Click … click

Thirteenth birthday a week ago,

ginger cake and bitter lemonade.

Now locked in the secret room

with her father’s silhouette.

Click. Click.

Sprawled on the bed,

a death pose,

he throws her a single sheet

to hide one thing but show the rest.

Click. Click … Click.

She watches him while he directs;

too scared to touch her

too eager to stop …

Click.

Says she should forgive him

that it is somehow normal.

.

..

Later

he will remove his breeches

for those framed moments.

While she cries, wondering

how long until

                        those won’t be enough.

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DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN – Catherine Ayres

new boots and pantisocracies

At Dunston Staiths

For eighty years it was an open vein,
bleeding coal into the Tyne.
A village before the new-builds sprouted,
the staiths’ wooden spine slinked
between ships; use not ornament,
this ancient monument a means to an end.
It’s quiet now. Joggers dot the waggons’
old route; commuters left hours ago.
The bloke in the café sighs.
Someone’s set fire to the restoration,
tagged carefully sourced wood.
Kids fuck under the new slats.
A dirty protest? Boredom more like.
We look out at the lagoon.
It’s eerie, fat with silt,
made strange with curlew cries.
I squint at them, these little dredgers,
balancing on what’s left.



Catherine Ayres is a teacher and a single mother. She has a pamphlet (shared with Steve Urwin) published with the Black Light Engine Room and next year a collection, provisionally titled Amazon, published by Indigo Dreams.

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