Come to the front of the ark
and look up. Note the pots
filled with earth yet to be sown.
The ladder up the side like a bunk-bed's.
The cafe underneath the stern
with sunflowers across the tables.

Buddhist prayer flags flutter
over the courtyard, faded bunting of a delayed voyage.
A silver bowl for a dog
has been placed beside a table-leg.

Others already use the ark:
the elderly hearty savour organic soup
over conversation. The pregnant take
the steep stairs easily, find it hard to navigate
the up-close toilet. They leave
without having given birth. A desk
stands to attention outside the door,
its drawer filled with stones.

Look up at the front of the ark.
All you have to do now is get on.


Closed Line


My father's intercom
could summon five children through a wheelchair-
friendly floorspace to a dining table
served by ice from a wall-fissure.

I felt like I had barged into your room,
the line so static-less, direct and cool.
I saw the toughness in your glance tough as pale straw
as you asked me to identify myself.

A heavy metal drummer - a cliche -
your heels tapped against desk.
A fan-blade cut the air.
My receiver barely knew
it had been picked up.




Audience


Hugged-in hips,
tensed thighs and heels,
she casts herself against
each dark-haired judge,
her fracture a year behind her.

Evenings, she practises Montreaux French
on men, perches on tables to bend an ear
beneath flickering light.
Her ambition stilled even as it lapped at her throat
that second she was unsure she was rising or falling.



My Advice


as direct, intimate
and suddenly-present,
as a shell at my ear.

Downstairs, my neighbour trips.
His cry shrill and brief,
immobile and ashamed
he waits for his carer to discover him.

At the table, you eat curry,
grains of rice coating the sides of your clay bowl.
You should leave me single.