Tight-Lipped
Worms Between Thoughts
Watchful, they gather on the top jamb
of doorframes, moist with gossip. Overly
harsh observations with a tantalising
soupçon of truth are their bread and butter:
'You sit and wait for something to happen,'
they burble.
I'm sure I do not.
Exaggeration is their pleasure dome:
'you stare out that window all day.'
Half-truth erring on nasty is their raison d'être:
'your dreams are not even your own;'
Their top-notch bistro is a nightcap revelation
of your uselessness: 'you haven't the skill/brains/
any idea ...' also, in case you've forgotten,
'it's all your fault.'
Sanctimonious old worms, you mutter.
With eyes blinking, they pronounce
disbelief: 'that wasn't us, you're mistaken,
you always get it wrong,' and glow disapproval
from their lofty corner of self-righteousness on the lintel,
designing anti-roosting spikes of no-confidence,
a no-climb paint to coat the tremblingly naïve,
hopeful pricks of almost-thoughts with the thick sticky
toffee of offence, and that's hard to clean off.
When the seagulls dive for lunch,
the worms squeeze their blubber into the plasterwork cracks
... hear them hum the melody 'j'accuse,
j'accuse,
we all fall down.'
My
Abandoned Cupboard
All it took was a look
through the light-slit peep-hole,
in my comfy cushioned cupboard.
By the man-made lake
were brown bears and big bellies,
parasols and surf boards
– stay on your towel
crooned the voice of distraction
– sit in your cupboard, lay back
on your cushions, breathe your needles -
and then high up on a crane,
a figure dangled over the city,
dancing, shimmering in a leotard
and shock of shocks – I knew
the dancer was thinking
– if the dogs stop barking
the bells will ring – that's all,
that's all, so I stayed on my towel
and waited, and minutes later,
the cupboard door opened.
Amanda Oosthuizen is from England.
Her stories and poems have been published in Winchester cathedral, the London
Underground, Under the Radar, 3:AM and Ambit. She edits Words for the Wild.