INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING LTD
WINNER: MOST INNOVATIVE PUBLISHER 2021 - INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING
WINNER: BEST COLLABORATIVE WORK 2021 - FOREST MOOR OR LESS by DAWN BAULING & RONNIE GOODYER
(Saboteur Awards 2021)
138 x 216mm
£9.50 + P&P UK
Watching My Aunt
I wanted to learn this new trick,
this act of dying
that got everyone whispering,
hushing it over amongst themselves.
So I watched her,
heard the shallow, quick breaths,
watched her arms thinning
till I fancied I could see
the bleached frame of her bones.
I expected her to shrink up,
away into nothing
or her skin to get so tight
that her bones would powder up
and her blood spill out,
making her fizz and froth over the edges of the bed
and down onto the scrubbed floor.
I wanted her to crack like a piñata,
let me see the insides, the spark of her,
watch it start to dwindle
then snuff it out with my finger and thumb.
I didn’t expect it but I remember
the smell just before the end
like tinned pineapples,
sour at the back of my throat.
There Is A Man At The Foot Of The Bed.
first on his belly;
then flipping, crabwise, upside down.
belly up, then belly down.
First dragging, nose along carpet-edge,
snouting through dust-bunnies.
twisting, thrashing, grinding against the footboard.
I know you can see him too,
if only out of the corner of your eye.
He is parading himself,
flashing in and out of our eye line.
His contorting body, black
oily Lycra –
showing every fibrous muscle cluster,
every twitch of nerve.
It is a grotesque display;
like a dying wasp. Yet my eyes keep
returning to the spot he inhabits.
Peripheral but not quite out of vision.
This man I cannot draw attention to.
The one I know you see is there –
but will not mention.
Waiting For The Sun
You walked with me
at three am
the sky grey, and the street
cold against mine.
We squeezed through locked gates
and sat on the squat roof
of the crematorium,
we would play
at holding a séance;
our breath rippling the candle flames
as we translated the leaf rustle
and poured melted wax over our hands –
sealing our friendship with the marks
You stayed with me for hours
squinting our eyes in the darkness
waiting for the morning sun –
wanting to watch as it smudged back the shadows
and added weight back to the outlines of the world.
You stayed with me,
waiting for the sun,
but it shuffled in unnoticed
changing the sky from slate grey
to the battleship grey of morning.
The cold air is the least concern
rather it calms the screaming of the skin.
Waiting out the night on this hillside –
Survival only if strong enough.
Her skin –
this newborn flesh, recoiling
at the sensation of the blanket she is laced into –
squirming to be free of the warmth that itches.
Nestled among Birch, Pine and long grass.
The air raking down into lungs. Each breath
traces a slight poison trail inwards.
This baby that sneezes instead of crying.
Pocket Full Of Stones
Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe
Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe is a Poet, Mum and Beaver Leader from Dukinfield. She has an MA from Bath Spa University and her two previous publications are 'Love is the way bark grows' (Half Moon Books) and 'I have grown two hearts' (Hedgehog Poetry Press). Zoë’s work has appeared in many anthologies and journals.
She regularly headlines at spoken word events.
Pocket Full Of Stones
Leaves breaking through the waters surface,
green, brown – the water is autumnal,
leaves falling, drifting.
The water is shallow,
still, it treads me down, hard,
pressing me into the grit
and dust that creeps up around me
and over me, tasting of the smell of wet grass.
There is light here,
giving shapes to the movements
of rocks, twigs and leaves
all of which are drowning with me.
Pulled in by my clumsy attempt
to see what drowning feels like.