Mslexia

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New Writing

My husband levitates at night. As birds begin
to vibrate and snow sifts from the curtains,
I wake to see him lift another inch, cat-curled
on his side, soft as bread. He faces away
but I can tell he smiles, every breath huffs
with smile. I don’t touch him. I fear his rest,
worry my stranger’s reach will stop his heart.

My mother searches drawers at night. Thunk
thunk – I can tell they’re empty, the next room
made hollow with the slap of resinless MDF,
its peculiar Calvinism. What does she look for?
Not careworn vests or handkerchiefs, not turtle-
necks or figure-hugging skirts; she prefers
pantsuits these days, the shed skins of shapes.

My daughter lines her tired eyes at night: violet
or ultramarine, even when she stays at home.
I can hear the tinny iPod dreaming, its tsking
irks me like no other sound – insectoid,
subtly overbearing. At least she is here.
It makes me wince, finding a vein in my head,
but it tic tic tics my melancholy girl to sleep.

My son is like my husband at night: lost
to the pillow without complications.
The story he reads behind his lids would shock me.
I choose not to enquire, either alone or of myself,
or of my friends with famished boys.
I know his hair smells like pan-drops, his feet
slop over the bed. He is an open lotus flower.

JANE McKIE is 44, has two pre-school children, and lives in West Lothian. She works freelance teaching creative writing, belongs to a women poets’ group, and is a member of Writers’ Bloc, who read prose at spoken word events (www.writers-bloc.org.uk). Her publications include Morocco Rococo (Cinnamon Press, 2007) and When the Sun Turns Green (Polygon, 2009). Jane is also the winner of the first Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition (see p 6).

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