by Ankh Spice
There were no windows and we spoke of home
as therapy – those who had tongues not yet unhooked by their dosage
Mrs Jesus sang, predictably
– Ave, ave, the roasting flare of the sacred heart the warmest hearth – her rosary
chattering DT-teeth in time with our rolling eyes
Quiet Joni said nothing, but beyond her starved-skull-smile a hatbox
spiraled out coloured scarves in the wind of a Julie-Andrews meadow, popping daisies
Simon, lion-posed on his chair, just roared for the fortieth time that morning
his teacup bounced steel drums, greening-gold, Zion’s royal spires and he the king of crowds
The nurse foghorned on what about family, what about people and houses and such
things that are normal like windows and loved ones and gardens, until
my faraway reason-voice came as grey paint – please understand, we are only crabs
And I could not say this then – when the weight
of the world cracks your careful shell
the pink cringe of a person
finds whatever it needs to mean safety – a rusty can a palace
when everything else has been thrown away
Ankh Spice is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (New Zealand), who genuinely believes that narrative can change the world. His poetry frequently interweaves nature/environment with mental health, and has featured in various publications, including Kissing Dynamite, Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, The Failure Baler, and others. He has upcoming work in Fly on the Wall Press, Rhythm & Bones, Moonchild Magazine, Honey & Lime, Re-Side, and Fevers of the Mind. His first chapbook is currently out in the great Submission Ocean. You can find him on Twitter @SeaGoatScreams, on Facebook @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry, and his published work to date listed here: https://linktr.ee/SeaGoatScreamsPoetry.