I might write
a poetry bite
upon your thigh.
You are my green dream
in a wistful city.
*
Rachel McAlpine
love poem
Love song
Your forehead
is the curve
of the world.
Through your eyes
I slide
into a jungle
a tangle
of flying vines
of blood feasts
of jagged cries
of silent
silken steps.
Your blood has the beat of the sea.
It pulls to the pulse of the moon.
If I die
before I lie
with you
rocks will rain
from heaven
on my grave.
*
Rachel McAlpine
X-ray man
Layers of music,
layers of junk.
Layers of living
in the old tree trunk.
How many layers
in the X-ray man?
Pleat me. Pleat
my shadow.
*
Rachel McAlpine
Enter Sir Lancelot
Although it’s true
that golden gleams
surround him
and true that every tree
blossoms with a crash
as he goes by
it is a silent seeking
in his eyes that draws her.
She unzips.
A bird coughs.
It rains from a sky of blue.
And a queen wants a love that is pure.
*
Rachel McAlpine
I can’t forget
I think of you
and lose my list
of groceries.
I can’t forget
the corners
of your mouth.
*
Rachel McAlpine
A love poem
A love poem will
debate
inflate
illuminate
exaggerate
negate and dissipate
the love that’s lurking
just below
the poem.
*
Rachel McAlpine
Love is a fine
Love is a fine
fat, grounded word
all above board.
Like me. I will not write
a poem for you.
I will not!
*
Rachel McAlpine
In my skull
My skull is an occupied
sofa. When someone
makes a home in your head—
no room for poems.
*
Rachel McAlpine
Comfort noise
Hello? Hello?
After you hang up
your obsolete handpiece
after you go,
comfort noise
swells through the holes.
*
Rachel McAlpine
I’ve got a poem
I’ve got a poem half written
like I’ve got a new lover
and I don’t want to say who he is
yet.
Wherever it is, the poem is the centre
of the room. All the time
I am making the bed, going for a jog,
taking a shower,
the poem rings.
Can it wait? What’ll I say?
A thin flame runs up my legs.
On the bus I think of other poems.
Now I have six half-written.
I am a slut
with petrol in my hair.
*
Rachel McAlpine
Poems in the wild—Rachel McAlpine 