The risks of baking with Tate and Lyle Golden Syrup [published by Flash Boulevard, 14.10.2023]
Take Joan Cook and place her in the Tate and Lyle factory in West Ham, deaf to her mother’s protestations that she’s too good to become factory fodder, with their fridge and Ford 10, and their caravan at Burnham-on-Crouch. Blend her with the other sugar girls, fashion, and friendship. Then whizz her round the dance floor with a dark-eyed squaddie called Sam, who whispers honeyed promises. Melt their bodies as he tosses her around in a lindy hop, ignoring the BBC’s prohibition of such dangerous music. The next day, when she’s cooled down, put Joan back to work, dodging questions about how far she let Sam go. Set a timer for expansion. Watch Joan pick over memory-crumbs as she writes, destroys, and writes a letter to her sweet soldier overseas. Rest Joan’s hands on her belly to feel soft kicks and flicks, as she savours a golden syrup sandwich, and the sweet memory of dancing with her beau.
Ire Ore [published by the Dribble Drabble Review, Fall 2022]
Eat it, and love it.
My mother’s resentments sloshed around my plate. I ingested them with her warnings.
If a man ever tries to do it, slap his face and run.
It’s a man’s pleasure, and a woman’s duty.
Put up, and shut up.
I swallowed contraceptives and contradictions, growing fatter to push down desire. As molten ore poured into me I became Niobe, my creations slayed.
Until one day, I painfully peeled back layers of rock. Smarting, I swam in a mountain stream, tears mingling with cool, clear water. And as the water flowed, the ire-ore within me softened.
Acting my age [published by Leeds Beckett University August 2022 in the anthology This Is Not a Rehearsal, and also by Roi Fainéant Literary Press]
I am the crone who craves
Naked skin against mine
Who yearns giving in to gravity
The safe, strong cradle
Of a lover’s hold
I am the soul who dreams of freedom
Who burns through barriers
Cool wind on my cheek
As silence enfolds me
And yet
I am the woman who fears
Handing in her keys
When my few short moments
Spent in the belly of bliss
Are done
And will I still dream, when I’ve left this room?
And will I still smell the sweet scent of sex?
Or will I miss the pull of gravity
And naked skin against mine
Take Joan Cook and place her in the Tate and Lyle factory in West Ham, deaf to her mother’s protestations that she’s too good to become factory fodder, with their fridge and Ford 10, and their caravan at Burnham-on-Crouch. Blend her with the other sugar girls, fashion, and friendship. Then whizz her round the dance floor with a dark-eyed squaddie called Sam, who whispers honeyed promises. Melt their bodies as he tosses her around in a lindy hop, ignoring the BBC’s prohibition of such dangerous music. The next day, when she’s cooled down, put Joan back to work, dodging questions about how far she let Sam go. Set a timer for expansion. Watch Joan pick over memory-crumbs as she writes, destroys, and writes a letter to her sweet soldier overseas. Rest Joan’s hands on her belly to feel soft kicks and flicks, as she savours a golden syrup sandwich, and the sweet memory of dancing with her beau.
Ire Ore [published by the Dribble Drabble Review, Fall 2022]
Eat it, and love it.
My mother’s resentments sloshed around my plate. I ingested them with her warnings.
If a man ever tries to do it, slap his face and run.
It’s a man’s pleasure, and a woman’s duty.
Put up, and shut up.
I swallowed contraceptives and contradictions, growing fatter to push down desire. As molten ore poured into me I became Niobe, my creations slayed.
Until one day, I painfully peeled back layers of rock. Smarting, I swam in a mountain stream, tears mingling with cool, clear water. And as the water flowed, the ire-ore within me softened.
Acting my age [published by Leeds Beckett University August 2022 in the anthology This Is Not a Rehearsal, and also by Roi Fainéant Literary Press]
I am the crone who craves
Naked skin against mine
Who yearns giving in to gravity
The safe, strong cradle
Of a lover’s hold
I am the soul who dreams of freedom
Who burns through barriers
Cool wind on my cheek
As silence enfolds me
And yet
I am the woman who fears
Handing in her keys
When my few short moments
Spent in the belly of bliss
Are done
And will I still dream, when I’ve left this room?
And will I still smell the sweet scent of sex?
Or will I miss the pull of gravity
And naked skin against mine