Revolution NOW [05]: Port

Port

Each wind, a face, asking to be carried through the compass points.
Magnetic you, ocean to all currents,
torn open as a sail.

On the exhale, the air finds the room to take stock of everything.
If you were to lie down, their ropes would soon
be tied to your bitt.

The birds come in, filling up absence, caws choked on oil slicks.
Stone soon festoons with greasy plumage.
That tickle in your throat.



The furrows queue up on your knotted brow, a mute-red bleeding
into cheeks, screamed lips, with your opened mouth
just a hairline crack

against this galaxy of emptiness, the colour of which
you can never change. You have no more say
in the colour of night.

Astronaut torn from oxygen; neck narrows, star implodes,
constricted re-entry. That fire is just
the wish to fly away.

A hurricane in a wing’s beat. So, what is the difference?
Just movement, and what can be told to move.
If you hold your breath

the orbits break, the ships sandbank, the birds stay nestled in place.
And that obstinate tickle in your throat is just
the wish to fly away.


Don’t forget, Headstuff are currently accepting poems on the theme of Revolution NOW until the closing date of 5 February at the end of this week — see our current call for submissions for more details.

We are also open for submission to our regular MONOGRAPH (a group of poems by a single author) and New Voices (unpublished poets under the age of 30) features.

Please read the full requirements on our Submissions page, before sending your work.

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