Burying Mark
The following is an extract from Intricate Rituals, a series of poems which ask 'if your boss was a toy, what would you do to it?'. The first poem in the series, 'Kissing my Boss', is available to read in From Glasgow to Saturn.
I drowned him and buried him in an unmarked shallow grave: a coward’s death. I blessed the soil. And I left a warning: this object is cursed. do not uncover!
Sunday best is lilac and lightwash,
like the shell of a handpainted easter egg
the kind with a living yellow centre
brush my lids with heaven’s baptism
scrub my lips with carrot cake
Handbag: holy water, salt, dagger, lotion, lighter, you.
From where you’re sitting, I’m sure
the things you do are reasonable, justified
decisions to protect
the business.
Because where would we be without
the business?
the things I do are coarse and crazed –
but, if you wanted, you could do other things,
if you wanted, if they suited you. This is all there is for me.
my only tools are petty spite thievery, crystals and words.
Black crows soar against a blue sky and there are
people in the park. Some of these people will be dead soon.
‘Hi,’ a woman says, smartly passing. As if she knows
what I’m thinking.
When the barn is burning, maybe all we can do is
set the horses free
To business, then
This is no job for fire, but for cool mercy
drowning you in your cage
extinguishing forever what was already charred.
swift knife action cuts through sweet butter
the tip of the blade enters the soil
and it’s hard to dig, earth is blacker and stickier than I knew
it’s hard to dig, but the world looks on
the ice cream truck music, dog walking and children squealing world,
soon I will blow out the candle and
the ritual will be over
but for now we dig.
Damp shadows melt
I knelt so long that my knees hurt
black crows soar against a blue sky and there are
people in the park. Some of these people will be dead soon.
‘Hi,’ an old woman says, smiles.
Some of these people will be dead soon, but not yet
god, not yet.