Poems written by Jane Kingshill for Out of The Deep
And Spring Again: Lucrece by Rembrandt (2)

That moonshine should lend itself to spadework, lying
flat as a doorstep, lusciously flake-white
and that a few beads should break loose and burst out crying
"Shed blood sucks up and not sends back the light"
scintillates. Rubies they aren't though nothing random
stitches them in reverse on ermined night.
And pearls. Always this pearly pair in tandem,
self and reflection caught on the instant, tight
as between. For never was swan more silver, forever
snatched from the snip-snap by grace of sing-song. Never
flesh more lambent nor river in spate stretched over
anemone rock more red than these snowflakes plying
their painterly trade, tossed on to the doorstep, flying
and dancing as swans do that feather our nests with their dying.

Only communicate if unfinished business
bursts from your eyes and bloodies the paper. Bright
for an instant’s fix wax makes the impress
absolute. Cut above. Proud of it. All the white
in the world won’t mask it or summer stop up with ripe
pale grass or lace across or stitch together.
Down on her knees the sea goes…Scrub and wipe
Scrub and wipe…
As if suds could or snow either, feather on feather
cover where once no space between us was.
So you won’t turn your half of smiling head
to mine and I can’t see if you do because
they’ve been here, done that, ground our bones to bread,
dosh, gold, - the pavement’s alive with it. Fairy stuff
that’s flown by morning. Hark to it groaning, mourning. Never enough.


Yes Knowing
nothing of what it's like to be a woman
in stays and long skirts
and childbirth once a year that kills
not only hurts
I hold a candle in a tin holder
and measure her winter world. A
circle winds its way round like a ball of wool. As round
as an orange, as big as a balloon at its tightest
but softly like the first smudge of day
which takes the morning star away
before our warming one whips everything to its lightest.

Uncandled darkness is the giant shadow
opposite. Drawn up and down and left and right
lead pencilling
our ancient logo in. And so it was for man
but differently. Because he was as forked as a bird
and flew before he could fly
and walked without stint and listened to and was the Word.
  Post feminist
shall we put
ourselves back again now? Untwist
the ivory cage neatly
add what went missing
mend what was never completely
pulled shut?

No. There is too much rage
in an orange not to burst every balloon.
And too tightly
even the softest wool
intercepts sight
in case your unfinished opponent's skin
should look too beautiful by candlelight.

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