Leonie Shinn-Morris: Two Poems
Decameron
The night opened
like the yawn of the world.
And I am sat with you, things catching,
watching capsizing on television
and holding your breath--
just like the dancers along the Rhine
in the 14th century. If I write
in capitals, can you hear me shouting?
We itch together
at the thought of
those silken tributaries
stretched out far ENOUGH—
Can you tell my
pause? Not to touch, but
with these electric transmissions
you could cut the blue with a knife?
My lie in your eye
and your lie in mine
To shiver when someone
walks over the grave of you
A Wet Sponge at One Blow
Later we went to the museum,
in terror whites and cold corners.
Inside a perfect cut ice cube vitrine,
each on their own mounting,
is every hair
I cut from
your head
that day on the terrace
each loss is every loss
A balding man pushes up his spectacles and,
looking down through them, studies infant follicle,
licks a finger, and opens his guide.
We move to a white column
adorned with one soft, round conker
passed palm to palm.
In this light, it flashes shiny surface
on shiny surface -
don’t touch the skin.
Mounted on the wall
(each loss being every loss)
is a piece of terracotta burst
outwards, plucked on a Sicilian path.
A woman coughs.
Squatting behind a thin white wire
is a Rorschach splash of wine
spilled on your kitchen lino
Aeschylus is ever us
A long low case
holds every birthday card
you ever sent me, their legs
splayed
with pins to hold
them open--
Two notes there too for
(assorted ephemera).
How we found in history the ones to hold us
brown paper and bubble wrapped
in the scholia of tissues
each loss is every loss
And you say
you'll buy
the postcard.
Leonie Shinn-Morris is a writer and editor based in London. She writes about art and culture for publications like Elephant magazine, Four by Three, and Broadly, and is also currently the Head of Editorial at Google Arts and Culture. Her poetry has appeared in SPAM zine, close, and more.