FlintFound on beach, cradled in hand. Deposited to new locations – we are both sedimentary. One formed in rocks of Antrim; the other broken: exiled by cold sad days and mad heat of loving. Stone age men would knap a spear from me; sharper than you, I could pierce flesh, slice skin from deer. Even still, if fire burns too bright, we will fracture, you and I. Full of impurities, more fragile than glass. ***
Press PlayBecause night came quicker than I thought I felt there should have been a period of time to disconnect before I slept; before my head pressed play into my pillow, eyes projecting flickering scenes, old cassettes rewound and played in place of what is true. I am just asleep but you’ve forgotten salty taste of tiredness, gone slumbering now for ten whole years I disremember you. And there you are stick-less, upright, whole man, dream man, played in place of what was true; this cassette has ravelled at the dreams and night came quicker than I thought. We’ll met in cracked wide spaces flooded now with mordant light, straight from kink in tape, straight from kink in my heart, straight out of loss and love and all the other things that I am not prepared to straighten out. Or wind back up and not press play at all. ***
TipsIt runs in families. Iced winding rivers- round reeded-bergs, flanked dam gravelled crags, swam aside for friction ridged peaks; impressions on pads. And you will know me by my very tips. A peacock’s eye; my whorl, your arch, his ulnar loop. You will press my digit into ink; you will leave me blue tipped; red hand caught; wing spanned; fingers clicking; tapping on the table to the rhythm of your pulse. Open pored handshake; yesterday’s half bitten nails; gold banded other half- nothing meant; left instead, a snail lined back handed, rag nailed terrible sleeper. I can feel the weather change. I know when winter slips her hands around the creaking door built with amber leaves- because inside these gloves my fingers have turned white. ***
Amy Louise Wyatt is a poet from Bangor, Northern Ireland. Her work is published in a range of journals and was she shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Award 2018. She is Editor of The Bangor Literary Journal. Amy’s debut pamphlet ‘A Language I Understand’ is forthcoming in 2020 with Indigo Dreams.
Read more poetry on Bengaluru Review: ‘Each word is an angel’: Six poems by Bhaben Barua ‘It was spring and we suckled dreams’: Four poems by Linthoi Ningthoujam ‘My words don’t have a house to live in’: Five poems by Namrata Pathak