by Charlie Brogan
Whereas once I may have muddied the intricacies of a sentence,
Bookshelf browsed their face for intentions,
I might instead sink into trust, and feel the power of it catch
My throat as though I’m lowering my shoulders into a November
Sea. I might lower myself into a November sea, feel the pebbles
Beneath me like knuckles in my feet, notice my insignificance,
And rather than feel the weight of this bear down like a penny
Sinking to the bed of a fountain, I might throw myself in as the wish.
I might stop treating my body like it is part of a race,
Stop tracing its so-called demise and find faith in my growth.
I might find faith in my growth. Mark the days of this ‘lost year’
in my calendar off as ‘The day I slept’ ‘The day I noticed how often he is kind’
‘The morning I noticed a season reveal itself on my skin’
I might notice a season reveal itself on my skin, stuff my nose into flowers
that would once have melted past my vision like a ripped plaster,
I won’t take a picture. I’ll taste the scent and move on.
I’ll talk to Graham, read bench plaques, regard the fragility of life as a simple fact
And move on. I’ll try existing out like a new coat, float down to the coffee shop
Maybe I’ll even invite Graham, ask him about his day, maybe I’ll listen for once.
I might try listening for once, and stop trying to pull chaos out of silence like drain hair
and fill empty hours with her instead. I’ll call my mum, ask her about her route to work,
The dog walk, the new lilac vase on the side table, I’ll ask what she keeps
Inside it, I’ll listen for once. God I might relax! Stop searching for the problem
Stop pointing to a phantom ache. I’ll stop running away from my neighbours
Feigning missed trains but hang back, lean against the fence, ask them
How they have been and I’ll listen.
Charlie Brogan is a writer, poet and model from the north of England. She is the co-founder and editor of ‘The Rally’ magazine.