Alex MacDonald: Two Poems

Do Sirens Keep You Awake?

For Rashed

When the director died, I quit
the actress life and became ill
professionally. Cameras swam
as harbour sharks. My portrait
was my face hidden by fingers
straight as graves on a hill. Is it
misery now, did a path of petals
lead to a kitchen sink? I met new
birds in person, swam backstroke
in bed, as silence kept me awake.
My hours secreted a transparency
unfamiliar to me, as if cupping an
ocean’s ultramarine, you look into
your hands. What is there? Water.

Red Peony

After Mary Delany’s collages

Is this not death: a paper peony,
cut and stuck against a midnight?
Not the skull, being bowling ball
fingered by a saint, but some torn

likeness of nature, born of natural
destruction. Green against darker
greens, unavoidable point of light,
even here. Petals fresh as a head

wound, with every stamen,
each thought, standing to share
whatever pollen remains. Leaves
compounded, as hands reaching,

still living, remembering the water
and the light they once loved.

Alex MacDonald received an Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors and has published three poetry pamphlets. He lives and works in London.