THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2015

Morgaine Merch Lleuad

SHE NEVER SITS ON A BLUE CHAIR

in case the spikes and smell fill her
with irony, with silent cold, and anyway,
today is amethyst. Instead she tips

the taste of jasmine into her eyes,
until her toes burn hot as Tuesdays,
and the whoop-and-holler of the post drowns out

the telephone’s chafe, ringing like almonds.
On round days such as this, she can’t tell
shoes from breakfast, shuffled like curry,

like people on the bus; uses pink
as an insult; boils tea to wear as a chasuble.
She curdles till she’s all magpies, but

when the glue and bitter gravel are too much,
there’s still the needle of blue chairs to prick her
into calm: she will never sit on one.


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