tetris

i.

What is unspeakable? The hole that talks in its sleep. Undoes things, keeps the glue dry, the wall in place. The hole is a hole because of its very existence, it is more than solid when all I am wishing for are fields and meadows, for trees to be plucked out of the ground, for valleys to run without the mountains. When I suddenly remember the hole I become the investigator, the subject, the witness, the convicted.



The chest taunts me in the corner of the room, staring, as if pausing before
breath—


I am also so sick of you 
ungrateful bitch
loosen up
what happened


lawnmower in the garden - leafblower - whirring - axes (probably not) - leaves
spiralling like ballerinas in dresses - watching wasps bang their bodies against
windows - craving sugar and spiders - needing smoothness
weeping
                    leaves &

depressed branches 
seeking stitches and scars




      RIDDLE: I FEEL GOOD WHEN I FIT INTO THIS BOX. MANY PEOPLE 
      LOVE THIS BOX WITHOUT KNOWING. IT FEELS GOOD TO SLIDE 
      IN NEATLY. WHAT AM I?




you clearly need me to transform 
you or you me
                  chop
 & then what



have you ever heard a squirrel cry 
at the top of a tree?
the other night I was sitting
writing
the sound I’d heard many times before 
like a wheezing duck
in the tree opposite
there he was
so mesmerising and strange
his little lungs inflating and deflating 
screeching for help
me
a freshly powerless spectator



it is unsettling and satisfying to re-remember something 
an old familiar thing misremembered
now, in its true way



I once knew a girl who for all her nineteen years in life thought that the only vowel 
in calendar was ‘e’. Suddenly, the alien ‘a’ confronted her, spurting into view. A
rug is pulled. A once-jammed drawer slides into place.



& then what
will they see an A or a B 
0 or 1

you will not fit through doorways




      RIDDLE: THE BOX FEELS GOOD BECAUSE OTHERS LIKE YOU IN    
      THE BOX BUT THE BOX IS A PRISON. PEOPLE DO NOT SEE THAT I  
      AM A TRAP DOOR. WHAT ARE YOU?




still scared of what’s going to come out
white sheets and the inevitable
the chest still in the corner, urging me to run 
unsure of the direction
where are the hills
where to start—maybe that
a pull into the freezer section
nothing to unthaw but my container of secrets

turn on the bbc to transphobes in feathers and sparkles
dancing to protect the Women of this country god bless please vote 
thank you I will write
that down more screaming
outside again something about
noise pollution this time telling
the birds to be quiet and
the squirrel’s always
screeching when writing
what’s it this time can't open
the page without shutting the
window first the chest
demanding to be opened
not today thank you


please make yourself known


ii.

The rain’s coming down heavily now. I am craving stillness. Empty lists. Valleys instead of hills. I want no climbing. I am still dreaming of them, waking up to movement I never wished for.

In the big, beautiful, green windows a flock of birds whirls past either side of the room. Many of us turn our heads to trail their movements, as if hypnotised.

Another full moon. Another day the crow picks up the worm. Goes back for more. Another day of ripping the hair out. Of twisting into room-less places. Of more unravelling. Something plays its last note. Thoughts buffer and load. Arms remain heavy, not yet strong from all the pulling. Nothing to hear on the radio today when all has been said. No regurgitation since Spring. Autumn and the moths are swallowing our words. Nowhere to lie on this hollow island, only pits and stages to drown on.

Someone zips up and unsettles us. Lock yourself in a cubicle until it passes. Shameful dreams the night before. Another unspeakable thing confronting me in the dream and me on my knees, my hands gripping my forehead like a child screaming for control. Waking to a wish for scalpel on skin. Something cracks or bursts and words begin to drip, like a nosebleed forming. Too much picking.


iii.

the black sky, the twinkling lights on the skyline, the streaks on the poorly cleaned window, something beautiful mingled—

I close the curtains and think about how lines eventually overlap at the right time, how if the x had been created at that time I told you about, when I was a scooped out tree trunk, leafless and moving with the scarecrows – and you, embalmed in grief, lying stagnant in lagoons all day while shelled nuts were collected, buried and then refound, and greens turned to oranges and reds before dying, only to spring back again as if by magic.

Now we sit on our balcony at night, with the dark trees pressed up against an unpolluted sky, with the odd coo or the soft elasticity of wings flapping against the wind peeking through, and we wait for the cat to appear in the garden, for it to perch underneath the bushes, stare off into the depths of the trees, mesmerised by something we cannot see.