written by: Jenny Middleton
How illness’ bald precision
Leans its shadowy gnomon
At damp mouths, at a past
Too tight to speak
The starless, darkness of its own cavities
Unless it is to the soil’s prostrate
Buzz of the unfurling dead.
Their powdery silt laid down
Amongst lost paramours clambering in
Abandoned seas’ fossilised dissatisfactions.
No moment is sacred. No paper writ
Without the scrape
Of cells unveiled.
A steely cap of boots
Shrives bone to a skin drum’s slack
Pain, beating voices clear of velvet mufflers –
Of scrolled, marbled tongues
Swung from history’s lidded crypt.
Jenny Middleton's poems have been published in various printed anthologies and online sites. Jenny studied English Literature and Drama at university and went on to study a postgraduate degree in education to qualify as a teacher; she is now a working mum. Her poems are often drawn from real experiences or inspired by artwork.
Latest posts by Jenny Middleton (see all)
- I Think of Internet Trolls - February 28, 2023
- Nan’s Piano - November 30, 2022
- A Letter to My First Car - August 12, 2022