In January
The sun corrected its knife
against the black door and the world
blanched the fruit of its market.
I pushed my hand
into the earth. Moved about ‘till I found the thing I thought I wanted.
I didn’t know, I couldn’t see it.
Distant trees
waved their deliberate locks
I watched
as if they had detached from the skull of God.
As if the joint of the sun
had bent to crack its shelves on
my heart in particular.
As if the body of the dew
had fixed the native sap of its tongue
forged
the apple of my mouth.
Helen Calcutt is a poet, dance artist and journalist.