I’ll be reading some of my poems at the Curious Fox bookshop on the evening of Tuesday July 1st at their ‘Isn’t Everything Poetry?’ event. It’s on Flughafenstraße 22, and the nearest U-Bahn stations are Rathaus Neukölln or Boddinstraße.
Come along, cringe and look embarrassed for me.
I am baking again,
after scraping the pan clean
black with oil from last night's
disaster, chartering a boat across the grey
gravelly sauce that might have been edible had I not been so full
to forget it
toasting on the hob.
We tread carefully through the flour;
our feet, meet;
faces on the floor.
I am still singing as I throw in the rest,
some eggs and some salt
the radio on and the apron string chafing
my skin, under the hairs, I whisper along
With tiny-mice-fingers I mix the butter in
til it crumbles and rolls,
becomes soft and crumbles again with the sugar,
sweet white waves cascading, itching my palms.
From a distance
it could've been a bird
or some kind of angel free
The wisp of smoke
a wing, caught mid-flight
by the line through it.
It was cold on the train
and we huddled in groups
a soup of people swimming
through the carriage.
The eye from the video
sign watched us
alongside that bird
stuck like a kiss
to the window.