Julia Bohanna is carrying out some restoration


Blisters of her green paint ruptured wet
under my nail like fat
bladders of seaweed.
The God of all Mildew had blown
bird's egg speckles and flown.
Whoever dressed her, has left her he said.
Sea licked the beach beyond
as I watched them take down
For Sale.
Puckers of wallpaper fell
to the flash of our knives like
flakes of her skin.
An angry nettle army bent its head
passing news of incomers and
the dead
to the salt wind.
Be sure to hack away her past, he said.
Make sure nothing survives.
Skeleton children laughed in every room.
We danced to the music of bones
and stroked each warming wall,
loving it all,
Hoping not to finish too soon.
Then we laid on paint
thick as a geisha ritual.
Pressing seeds into fresh soil,
those imprints of us.
Small hands will
one day touch her, we said.
The sea still kisses the curving coast
and I sweep whispers of dust from
lofty unloved places
as our own whispers fade.
At night we listen to settling sighs,
shiver about children that might have been.
There is nothing else to do.
All is well here
except us
with nothing left
to do.

• Julia Bohanna says “I'm new to this poetry lark, but I have fooled people into believing I am a good short story writer. Enough to give me prizes!” and adds “Making it up is the best way to be… spontaneous, that rush of panic that makes you feel alive. Planning is for duller, less creative souls!”

One comment

  1. Anonymous

    Great poem, Julia!

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