All work copyright Katie Daniels. Please contact me if you would like to reproduce any of the work or use it in any public or educational setting. Many thanks.
The blue cushion
on the sun lounger
still holds the shape of my skull:
a cast of me, leaving traces
(one fat amber hair)
as I walk across the lawn
feeling the dry grass
against my bare feet
(this ligament's
fractured grip)
moving into the shade
indoors, disjointed
(you said that you hated
the feel of small things' bones:
their fragile skeletons
moving under skin)
but mobile. Ultimately,
like the short distance from sun to shade,
we are only as good
as what strings us together.
Katie Daniels
First published in 'Catch' by Redbeck Press, August 2007
Things We Leave Behind
I will leave you in the orchard,
covered in ivy;
a seat carved into a boulder -
or on a windowsill
as a bowl of salt
to trap slugs -
in the bedroom
being one solitary juggling ball
on the bookshelf -
or the conservatory
inside ivory elephants
nose to tail to nose to tail -
I will send you postcards
less frequently.
We will have an understanding.
I might not visit.
This is not my second home.
And when the ivy
grows into your windpipe
and the salt dries up
your spit and air,
you start to lack
the snug of palms,
don't need me
to make you wanted.
I have no claim on this.
I'm driving east
back down this tourist road.
Katie Daniels
First published in 'Catch' by Redbeck Press, August 2007
This is my village
This is my village:
all roads out spidering uphill -
Church Street, Swan Street, Cox Hill.
Estates closing like new skin around the edges.
These are the streets of my village:
pastel, half-timbered,
leaning sideways and in.
This is Broad Street
where Tornado Smith
rode the wall of death
with a lion in his sidecar.
This is the river through my village:
some winters, when I was small,
the water covered Broad Street,
made my village a ford again.
This is the centre of my village:
where the road curves past the post office
and the bridge leads to the church.
This is the bridge
where there are two girls,
where two girls are whispering,
where I am whispering to Michelle.
It is a secret.
Footnote:
Tornado Smith, 1908-1971
. The first Englishman to perform on the spectacular 'Wall of Death'. His fellow performers in his motorcycle stunts on the Wall were his wife, Marjorie, and his twelve stone pet lioness, Briton.
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