ISOBEL BURKE

self portrait as a chronic limp. 

hands together, unlike prayer, cupped
to hold water
but i am not a water carrier, my spine just bends
like that 
in moonlight. born under a bad sign, so to speak,
or not altogether bad, perhaps
just cold.
we are no longer together, only in dreams
and cemeteries, 
one day,
if i get around to it. 

look away and grief calcifies, a tiny pebble 
in cupped hands
sparkling in the dark, obsidian moon on a chain
just in case. 
no, i am not superstitious. my running late 
comes from my fear of nines, but, 
i am also scared 
this is the only life i’ll get.
i am, apparently, 
still my mother’s daughter, 
not so much flesh and teeth, more, 
i think, a bruised arm 
or split ends. 
she put her precious things in
safe places,
so safe she couldn’t, or maybe didn’t want to, 
ever find them 
again. 
the more precious the thing, the safer the place, 
i’m still confused about how she loved me
so carelessly. 

hands together, this time in prayer, fingers steepled
building cathedrals
to love 
and forgiveness,
but i am no architect, not devout,
and my hands are very cold. never forget i am a
december son, 
and i think god knows if you
don’t, or can’t, feel him
and i think, even if i don’t, or can’t, believe 
in god, i might be scared 
of anticlockwise movement and tuesdays,
because death likes tuesdays and and grief shadows
the rear view mirror like a 
big black dog
in my back seat. 

i do love you, probably or at least i think, 
i am not so cold and could be sunshine, 
for you,
it’s just, i am very careless and, usually or 
most of the time,
losing important things so, maybe,
i am my mother’s daughter, 
after all.