Shower


The storm rolls through me as your mouth opens.
– Ian Hamilton



With my head between your hands
water dividing us,

this is another century
where you’re a witch doctor,

I need a hole passed
through my skull.

The ceiling turns to sky,
the bath’s an altar stone.

I must remember ours
is no real rain,

the strobing lamp outside
is false lightning

and when you grasp me
by the hair, it’s just to lather it.

I tilt my face until
the water makes me blind.

You step away and leave me
to the last.

__________________

Helen Mort

 


Helen Mort
was born in Sheffield and grew up in Chesterfield. She has published two pamphlets with tall-lighthouse press and her collection ‘Division Street’ is forthcoming from Chatto and Windus. From 2010-11, she was Poet in Residence at The Wordsworth Trust, Grasmere. Helen is currently studying for a PhD at Sheffield University and runs ‘Spire Writes’, an open mic night in Chesterfield.

 

 

 

 

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