Liminal, Hospital visit & The inside-out house
by Helen Ivory
[ poetry - june 10 ]
Liminal
She has forgotten how to sleep;
coverts the house its slowed breathing
its routine loosening of joints.
Cats are singing
in their extraordinary voices,
to the moon or whoever will listen.
Angels are unzipping the sky
and she pictures herself
black-feathered, hollow-boned.
There is a fire on the other side
of the city, there is a taxi waiting
at the edge of the park.
Hospital visit
The waiting room is full
of all sorts, pretending
to be awake.
The bad mother,
deaf ear cocked
to the incubator;
the bogey man,
painted eyeballs on his hands,
wedged upright in the corner.
Even the alchemist
has discovered a way
to shoe horses in his sleep.
The inside-out house
The house turned inside out
is stuffed with cotton wool
to force it to stand.
Its innards are tumbled
onto the velvet grass
and trees watch
with the quick eyes of birds.
One has laid eggs
in the body of her parents' bed
and is breaking them open
with a pin sharp beak.
It eats the yolk, leaves the albumen
to dribble down
through the rusty springs.
