Nostalgia Makes Us Silver


Hoarding stacks of cassettes for the sound of our

burgeoning darkness I dreamt of Wordsworth

on the English crags his voice like a boom

I wanted his visionary mind so sick of my own

the way these cells don’t grow and I’m stuck

out of love without knowing the old

folks water their plants every day I miss the bluebells

and the yellow narcissi lining the shore of Millport

there’s an old shipyard out there with gongs

of saltwater sound and scratchings of rust

I could lick all that metal to feel better

lacking iron I’m a bit mad not pregnant but it’s fine

as the way we waited for the ferry all March-like

and mild we missed the last train I craved

hot chocolate I wanted to rip out my womb he told me

he’d visit I wished he did there isn’t much more

to our life than this I served strangers all day

for pitiful money it was enough then to do

the basics to lie in the park in the sun

almost happy with my body the green was bright

and I miss it more I don’t think we’ll ever

write again get together there’s just

something in the way the brush scours

the roots of my hair I wish it was his fingers

electric and sparkling I lie in my bed

as if paralysed I don’t care anymore for

coffee or oranges or the sad sweet smell

of summer gloamings I want a recipe for

filling the emptiness this is past and present

together what’s the difference I think there’s

a cloud for the future he declared

the sky is blue because of different kinds of darkness

filling the void behind it I want

to find that space its blueness and fire

like an ocean my heart illuminates the lack

and turns with the moon into everything.

[Maria Sledmere]

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