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Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

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Emma-Jane Arkady

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Three

Stark, the frame casts amber
shadow slats on my face,
I am sudden upright shock;

a chilled fit, twisting,

three one

spat me out, turned
the quilt to a rancid tangle;

a stinging bead clung,
paused, then ran to the cheek
a drip, a path of damp

ripped in the face
stretching flesh
as it cooled to a salt track;

spat out

three five

from the dim. tossing
to the dark margin, squinting

I finger the smooth drop
the banister angle
and edge with toes

trip, to the heating
switch over to constant
shiver and wait for the day,

broken up by dreams;

three ten

they had chain-shot
slant across the bows,

and missed it,
the sea,
cut through timber,

the sudden ingress
a tasting, stunned
to scared awake,

flooded the chain locker
fast with salt, rust
polluted and cold, drowning

spat me up, awake;

three nineteen

and I tread and squash
the cat, the squeaking toy,

drip ash on the rug
type badly, drink
coffee lining the mouth

the tired skull
with slight hope
of staying out

of the ocean
of the priest hole
of the place with the lining of sharks teeth,

cutting me

three forty seven

up to afraid of sleep,
of pathetic light,

of the drab sparrow
cheep on my fence the cat
stalks close in to the glass

as the dawn
breaks the count
down to a split

head, a terse
appraisal of night
and the reams of sea.

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