Susan Adams

The foetal curve
is a question mark
we revert to
not a haven for a life
...

I stare at my cup of lukewarm tea
cradle the bowl
as I would your head against me.
Loosed light on tremor rippled surface
...

We live here - 'Raphael, '
a leprosy colony in India.
The 'caste' means we are both cast
to the separation of ordinary.
...

I stare at ten red fingernails spread on arm boards
fine blonde hair too real for the pillow
eyes roam monitors, oxygen level,
heart beat pulse, return to red, back to clock,
...

You came in the wet, satin depths of me
rogue wave broadside
determined ambition
of burst pain
...

Two tankers sit at the split between
sky and water,
our ankles are knit by rockpool eddies
and arms wrap the other as linen,
...

Landscape is a slovenly
hot, dirty white.
The Ganges font
in the foothills of mountains
...

You dare to part the grass to find the mirror.
Pain carves you out of different stone
but you fight to become similar,
to know the thrill
...

Sheets once scattered with pools of hope
are patient
the chequered patterns from
dried unions
...

Feet sad the floor
like record grooves that can't escape the needle,
there's a weariness in the warp and weave of steps.
Eyes are parables,
...

Perhaps the stars are tough
our land-grab eyes see only magic in the skies
but burnt-out hearts know the speed
of planets leaving.
...