Poetry

Poems by Julia McCann

the worried people

the worried man sits at his dinner table

facing his mother

who is face down in her soup. 

she is dead.

and her hair has matted in the tomatoes.

he raises his spoon and slurps.

the worried woman sits at a fresh old grave

mud between her teeth. 

she holds a dishcloth

to clean off the worst of the decomposition.

she glares at the worm

living in the eye socket of her lover.

the worried man and a freezer chest

and a body that is slightly too big

and a garage full of builder’s tools

and time.

the worried woman and a canvas

and a needle and thread

and a graveyard full of materials

and time.

the worried man watches the bowl in the microwave spin

the beeps a sonata in his head.

he sits at the dinner table alone

and yet not alone at all. 

he savours every mouthful

and makes polite smalltalk with the silence.

the worried woman messes up another stitch.

the needle slices through her bloody shaking hands.

her eyes are already clouded. 

the flesh she holds collapses in on itself. 

she pushes the needle into her hand.

and screams into the darkness.

the worried man rocks back and forth by an empty freezer chest. 

the meals were warm

but now he is cold.

he climbs into the chest.

curls up.

and pulls the lid down above him.

the worried woman unpicks her ragged stitches

tidies everything up nicely

then tucks her lover back into bed.

she climbs in next to him.

curls up.

and pulls the lid down above them. 

pavement eggs

some joker dropped a box of eggs ont pavement

or maybe they threw em

either way

there smeered all over t shop 

an the pavements on like a tilt

so all the yolks slid down int gutter

an the council was suposed to come n like clean t all up

but they never sent no one

so theyve all rotted an all the shells have got all smashed up int dead little bits

an i av to walk round t every morning in a great big circle

an i look like a right pillock

exept this morning i didnt have to cos they werent there no more

i think someone came n scooped em all up in night like

but theyd of had to of used tweezers to get t right small bits

an a spatula 

or i suppose a pie slice would do it 

the one me mam uses for m&s quiche when me social worker comes round

broccoli an cheese it is usually 

maybe it were modern art 

an they were taking it back t museum

i’m probly not clever enuff to get it

bath bomb

it’s funny that they call it blood loss

it’s not lost

i know exactly where it all is

it’s in the bath

not quite as fizzy as a bath bomb

but just as bright

and it’s warm too

warmer than the water

and prettier than the mould

it’ll definitely stain the tub

not salvageable by bleach i should think

not that it matters

they’ll rip the bathroom out

get the whole thing refitted 

i don’t think they’ll mention the death on rightmove

potter’s wheel

as i awoke one morning

from uneasy dreams

i found myself transformed in my bed

into clay

sticky plasticine

that had to be peeled away from the sheets 

i caught a cartoon tear in the mirror

and pretended i hadn’t noticed

i walked to the welfare in a heavy overcoat

despite the sun

and tried to ignore the stares

as i picked the gravel out of my feet

they couldn’t recognise me 

told me they couldn’t help today

i sat on the little steps outside 

and melted into the concrete 

until i was just an overcoat 

and a puddle