once,
talk of parties, of intake
(both liquids and bodies)
gelling glands
and which drugs were used
the night before.
And not just on pumped up nights
but average Autumn evenings
- surely the dreariest month
if honest.
Now,
talk of clothes dryers, painting shelves
books read and parental moods.
Domesticity meets elasticity
from bathrooms to play-pens
lovers to another
city to rural rule.
The monarch of which, sits
on a throne
that flushes.
© Clinton Gorst
There are potatoes everywhere.
When I kick the ground,
they appear -
gobstopper-sized,
golden eggs,
starchy jewels
stashed in the earthís pockets.
Theyíre far too tiny really,
I should throw them back
let them swim beneath the soil
wiggling their white tadpole tails,
swelling to frog size
for another month.
But I canít resist
I gather them up
like a string of broken beads.
Theyíre my bonsai potatoes
to serve on Zen white plates.
© Sarah Laing
Beetroots quartered
and roasted
and their pink blood
shocks
Their pink shock
seeps
into my finger prints
Frames them like a
police search,
a pink panther
homicide
Pink blood
splatters
my white shirt
like a marital sheet,
or
borscht in a bowl
of Russian snow
Snow angels
with beet pink lips,
arms flapping
and legs parting
The white shock
chills
The white chill
blushes.
© Sarah Laing