That Which Moves
Siobhan Tebbs
I have only my wit to recommend me
and what there is of it scares the magpie.
There is a place in my mind (there is definitely)
where a Sarah-Vaughan voice, thick with wholeness,
wraps me and I think: well this is a kind of heaven.
For a moment I slip into quietude,
as if beauty were a whisper from my memory.
That which moves out there in the meadow –
speck of moonlight on the darting fox –
figures only at the summoned hour
in the dream of my becoming.
Those who have found the flow of the water
say it only takes a remembering. Safety’s glimpse
and I am clinging to the continental shelf –
ever jealous of the earthquake.
One by one my thoughts stick to the sky.
Street lamps capitulating to the morning
as if there were a ghost to turn towards.
There it rises, with the sun: a taxonomy of doubt.
Day’s febrile activity a mirror for my distances –
living, as I do, one step to the side of myself.
What’s the crime again? Power
(or flashes of power, or moments of power):
that vassal state of the empire of my life.
I am still pandering to quicksilver gods,
paying my bills, turning up to work, making smiles,
indulging the imperial addiction to coffee and sugar.
Dawn, my ancient, never-tired friend,
woo me again with your clean-slate air,
trust me again to open up my petals.
Bio-note
Siobhan Tebbs (she/they) is a poet and fiction writer based in Barcelona, Spain, and originally from the North of England. Her work seeks to document and probe the intricacies of relating - with ourselves, with one another, and with our environment. Siobhan’s work has appeared in The Ulu Review, Pink Disco Magazine and The Closed Eye Open and recently won the Passengers PRIDE prize for short fiction. Siobhan can often be found whispering poetry to clients in English, Spanish, and Catalan at the Barcelona Poetry Brothel as her character Sebastian.
http://siobhantebbs.wordpress.com.