On Circularity

phases of the moon

by Mary Paterson

A red balloon, heavy headed.

Two bottle tops, one red, one green.

The lip of a cup, a bowl, a champagne flute.

The leading edge of a raindrop.

A ring of still water in the base of a birdbath.

A ring of tea in the bottom of a sink.

The indent of a ring on a bare, fleshy finger.

The other edge of a whistle.

Unlit, unblinking floodlights.

The parts of a Lego block that stick together:

One open mouth, one patient tongue.

The base of a plastic tree.

The turret of Hogwarts Castle.

The top of a marble run.

The inside of a pencil sharpener.

The slow-moving wheels of a slow driving van,

filled with oranges and bread rolls and glacé cherries.

The sharp point of a brooch you bought for your mother.

Two broken halves of a compact mirror.

A roll of carpet tape, thick and ridged like honeycomb,

which sticks nothing down.

The space for your thumb at the bottom of your iPhone.

The space for your fingers in the spine of a box file.

The space for your eye at the hole in the door.

Do not say silence.

Do not say isolation.

Do not say message waiting to download.

Do not say furlough.

Do not say PPE.

A cardboard crown, painted gold.

The fresh end of an unused rubber.

The moon.

A red balloon, heavy hearted.

Two bottle tops, one said, one seen.

The sip of a cup, a bowl, a champagne flute.

The bleeding edge where the rain gets in.

A ring of stillness in the base of a bath.

A ring of sea inviting you to sink.

The indent of a song on a bare, fleshy finger.

The other end.

Unlit, unlinking.

The parts that stick:

One open mouth, one patient tongue.

The plastic tree.

The turret.

The top.

The inside.

The slow-moving.

The oranges and bread rolls and glacé cherries.

A pin prick, that reminds me of your mother.

A broken compact mirror.

A roll of carpet tape, thick and ridged like honeycomb,

which sticks nothing down.

Space for your thumb

Space for your fingers

Space for your eye

Do not say silence.

Do not say isolation.

Do not say message waiting to download.

A cardboard crown, painted gold.

The fresh end of an unused rubber.

The seasons.

The moon.

A red balloon, heavy, heavy, heavy.

Two stops: one, one.

The sip, slip, ship of a cup, a bowl, a champagne flute.

The bleeding edges leave a stain.

A ring of stillness in your back.

A ring of sea and then you sink, sink, sing.

The indent of the singing on bare flesh.

The other end,

Unlit, unlinking.

One open mouth, one patient tongue.

The tree.

The turret.

The top.

A mother.

A mirror.

A roll of carpet tape, thick and ridged like honeycomb

which sticks nothing down.

The space for

The space for

The space

Do not say

Do not say

Do not say message waiting.

A cardboard crown, painted gold.

The seasons, fresh, unused.

The moon.

Mary Paterson is one of the co-founders of Something Other.

www.marypaterson.wordpress.com

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