July

Antigravity isn’t going to work here

isn’t the month for doubt cracking the skin

like a drought ridden lawn, 

but for the fizz of drinks hitting tongues

to wetten memories in a sprinkler burst of excitement. 

These are the weeks to watch the sky

offer a picnic just for you, for every flower 

to do a ta-da! and release their scent just as you’re walking by, 

for every ice-cream to wilt, for every beach 

to unveil its secrets, for every tide to let you feel 

its Poseidon beard with your toes, for every pier

to let you recapture your youth with rides

twisting like the intestines coming out of your mouth, 

for every minute bronzing yourself to the point 

of passers-by confusing you with a statue

and seagulls posing for selfies 

while the incoming salty air knocks you back

like a sandcastle of paperwork about to collapse.

the occupational therapist said, 

lifting my caveman haunch of a leg. 

A feast for Henry VIII. Zombie

groupies set to go wild. In this moment,

bubbled away from reality, 

everything lifted away from the concrete

monotony of inescapable pain. 

The cracked walls of the side room

split, the windows gave way, 

and the ceiling lifted up like a doll’s house. 

Floating around like a childhood astronaut

removed me from the gravity of adulthood

and everything that tethered me. 

I never noticed the dark matter 

in the cracks or the black hole growing

like an undetected tumour.