by Helen Ogden
(Eng­land)

These are the joints that cal­ci­fy us,
these are the cur­dled reins that rise.
These are the roots that tenderise
the fight­ing mass,
the whorl of tex­tured cells.

Life col­lects an orches­trat­ed trail
that stems from clouds of flesh
and throat. Wrists curl over stomachs.
In the thrall,
breath dis­turbs hair. 

Noth­ing pre­vents our trav­el­ling like this,
as if our limbs rely on lit­tle else.
The mouths that glis­ten in the labyrinth,
the fin­gers smoth­er­ing the way.

A mon­ster of lovers, leavers, friends
failed fas­ten­ings, work­ings with­in the skin.
You know it’s there, the tributaries,
rivulets
set in the chest, the lungs.

Yet don’t speak, don’t move,
be still against the spin­dled squall.
‘We are here, we are here , we are
here,’ the crea­ture sings.
‘to be held, held, held.’

Helen Ogden is a York­shire writer who loves sto­ries. She has been pub­lished in Cab­i­net Des Fées vol­ume 3, Gob­lin Fruit, and the In The Telling anthol­o­gy by Cin­na­mon Press amongst oth­ers. She is cur­rent­ly writ­ing an Antarc­tic Fairy­tale for chil­dren about bossy Pen­guin explor­ers and fugi­tive cir­cus bears.

Filed under: Jabberwocky 14