After not taking meds, by Abegail Morley

I am not a silent poet

In the distance myself dithers in a separate darkness,
I squint and there she is, squatting in accustomed corners,
palms grazing walls simultaneously, touching

self-made scars. I let them do it, embrace coldness,
uncoloured skies. I should name my mood-swings
as if they’re storms, Met Office’s first this year closed

every school on the Western Isles. I went home early
warned by strong currents circling my brain. Last night
I knew it heaved itself from borders, quickened

with wasps burning around my head as if they knew
I was short-circuiting, wings searing hair till I woke
from a dream of black cliffs, starved skin, a drenched

mouth falling and rising. I look at last year’s crop,
drunken bees dallying around my body, wading until tired
legs stop. I can lie to you in stages like I do now

picking sloes from the ceiling of my bedroom, waiting
for fermentation to…

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