Thursday, 14 July 2011


[originally published in Ex Plus Ultra, this is the definitive version]

We ate sunsets for supper
as my passionately distracted,
dedicated husband pulled
Venus and Vesper from the sky.

Mornings were a celebration:
serenading dawn, as he
handed us fistfuls of molten gold,
splashed in honey and milk for breakfast.

Noon was intense, baking
the clay of our backs into
reluctant bricks, regimented
into a broad daylight temple.

By sundown we were withdrawn,
and I withdrew, taking my bone
chalice from under the bed
and cutting down to the river.

There I bathed in the whaling
ultrasound of the gravid Phoebe,
cooling to silver, becoming mother-
of-pearl in her gaze; remembering

as I lusted for limbs of pallid light:
all that glitters is not gold.

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