Is it absence that dwindles the candle
wicks I lit last year? I have to capture
vials of the pale moonlight and dip them
in the goats trough who gulp amniotic
fluid, kissing my future wounds on wrists
and ankles, laying amongst the sudor
of animals; vestal, beastial, holy.
In partial seizure I lie in my crib.
The cello bows of angels wings swooping
in like taffeta bats, their yellow teeth
peeling replies to no one. When we blow
our noses it’s like banging tornados
against our teeth. You will be a symbol,
in time the purpose of this will be lost.
Grant Tarbard works a vampire’s hours. His team of haematologists have ok’d this poem’s content.
We Feel At Home While Running
Huskies in Svalbard
We are put at the back of the sledge
to run backwards, all the six of us,
on the tips of our toes, bottomwise.
I’m the leading dog, besides győőő, hóóóó
my ears show the guys every order,
right, left, slow, fast, always at the ready.
My padded sole is tattering the slush.
Our human aims to return to
what he calls a mrrrr Christmas.
We slice the smirr of the darkscape
like the axe smashes our treat,
dried codfish with soft atlas of juice in the deep.
Agnes Marton is a poet, editor, founding member of Phoneme Media. Recent publications include ‘Estuary: A Confluence of Art and Poetry’ (winning the Saboteur Award) and ‘Captain Fly’s Bucket List.’ She has participated in an expedition to the Arctic Circle.
*Place names in Svalbad