Poetry | Ink Sweat and Tears

Sue Moules

SURREAL SHEEP

I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.

“Done on a computer I suppose”
says a lady as she hands over forty pence.
“Yes, I expect so” I say.

I’ve only seen white,
black and brown sheep,
earth coloured in the fields.

Not hand-coloured
like my parents’ wedding photo
so they were always young.

I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again:

Weather good
honey ice-cream lush,
wish you were here.

Sue Moules‘ most recent collection is The Moth Box.(Parthian).

hoover witch mum / mum on the rocks / mum’s coach horses / all the king’s mums /

speaks whale, speaks star
breathes in — tight as a tomb
breathes out — splintered crackle

Rack and stretch her, loosen flesh
from bone. A jointed bird will not squawk.

A woman somewhere is typing on the internet
my heart wakes me up like clockwork.

At breakfast my man sticks a purple
magnolia bud in my soft boiled egg.
The flower opens, distilling to lilac.

Sometimes I’m surprised there’s light
in dark places, those corridors, those alleys
where you wouldn’t stray if you didn’t need

Trends of lead, silver, copper, and zinc
vein the middle of Missouri . . .

. . . something, cold
wet and bitter, saline
sided by yellow sand . . .

and I said,
“I understand,”
and I did, ishly . . .