absent when present

buoys bob in chilled water ocean song invites me wade in this sea steep in aquatic surrender soul swims in a saline soundscape the familiar swish the familiar forgetting weightless and empty absent when present

with my marbled marine memories

there are no sundays

on seas of solitude

bobbing in the waves

of our weary global compassion

hearts slowly sink

parties cancel

weddings postpone

gatherings cease

there is no church

there is no brunch

there are no sundays

only damp monday evenings

tv and canned soup, alone

the thorn and thigh

the mound of ivy and thorns i ripped from the ground yesterday lay outside my door

last night the vines wrapped round my ankle, careening their way up my calf 

they crept and crept, higher and higher up my pale winter leg

the naked wineberry brambles sought to make a potion out of me

the hairs of their stems sunk into my supple skin, nibbling every inch

coarse, tiny daggers bit into the flesh of my thigh,

and the little bastards drank me all up. 

my sweet blood for their water.

my nutrients for their concoction.

vining their way closer to my vulva

vying for more sustenance - they paused

i may keep that - for myself - for now

the vines retreat back towards the ground

each thorn plucking itself free, liberating my limbs

as they crawl back down to the pile of clippings in my back yard under the oak tree