she leaves her hair on the pillow
like tangles of sunset cobwebs
to snare my thoughts
throughout the day
in them, I will be wrapped
like a near-dead fly
in a prison of the softest thread
unable to pick myself free
waiting for her return.
he was like a giant slab that a god had once thrown from the mountaintop,
sunk into the earth under his own weight
aligned with gravity.
and there he laid, cheek pressed into the dirt, waiting for feet to stand in front of his
and pass a few words
or strew some crumbs
that his big, long tongue might loll on to
and manage to get stuck on its furred surface…
drag them back in.
the tree that clung to the crags above him,
all thick, wiry root
and hard sinews,
was his ever-constant sentinel,
either dropping idle tears
or watching with impassive indifference
as the sun baked his face to cracks.
occasionally, and with sun-blessed consent,
she’d shelter his face with the long fans of her fingers,
his cheek swollen with silent thanks around her shade.
she’d send part of herself fluttering down to rest in his cheek,
a discarded comfort
he was never sure
was meant for him.
you can't fly on pity
they stroked me with feathers for an age
until the too-tender tickling became an agony
and I begged them
to shred the down from the shafts and
scratch me with the broken remains
they were sad
I had rejected their softness
the not-quite realness of themselves.
I tried to explain that I did not see my reflection in theirs
that their mirror was making me cry
of the ones they proclaimed to love
(but only as a way to unburden themselves
to heighten themselves)
I seek something to trust
l o v e ?
may it seize me as it pelts,
into the sky
a carnivorous wind
ready to consume my little feathers
that no one will use to stroke
but that I shall use
About Amara George Parker
Amara George Parker is a writer whose poetry has been published in literary magazines i n k s p a c e and She Who Knows. Her poetry and other writings have also appeared on the social media sites of literary publications and in scruffy notes thrust at people she loves. When she isn’t writing, she is most likely to be found either tangling her fingers into herbs and garden veg, pootling on the river, listening to something sultry or funk-ridden, or trying to fuse her over-elasticated body back together.