Christine Murray

from bone silence

#1

the small curved-in feet of foxes are painted black

hidden behind the gnarled chain-clasp of a coatcollar

their small bodies (at least two) were winter-warmers

coat-enhancers.

testing the fur, I blow on the hairs and see beneath

the rich red-black/ a layer of downy white fur / I

twist and turn the fox fur in daylight catching its lit

its /rich.

there is a swatch of coppering satin sewn onto

the flat neckpiece

its all for show/ for delight/ I think the small feet

defeated

there are no fox heads on this piece,

the dangling feet are purely decorative.

#2

a red herring-bone skirt clasped with a bone button

red u-loop pulls in/ holds-to the purpling skirt silks

a scarlet silk underskirt/ maybe swish these animal

mementoes garnering my thighs/ descending to my

ankle-bones.

#3

a jar of buttons/ stray threads/ rattle my bones

they are coffined in a blacking tea-boy/ urn/

a green-scented-coffin for discarded things,

I take them out/ the bone buttons compete with

jade and red/with gold/ with black/ some cloth

covered / old herring print/ these buttons/ gilded

were for wintering coats/ elaborate dresses/ gold

sequinned to catch and disperse light/to bring the

eye up to the embonpoint or down to flashing skirts

there were shoes for dancing in. I threw all the shoes

into an old skip and kept the bone-reminders instead.

from skin silence

#1

shifting colours are discernible on the periphery

of my vision field

white is broken up

into a minutiae of amber/turquoise/shrives sun

spell of unconscious not-caught-thought

there and then light finds

a new skin of multiple hue

lizard-shuck/parts discarded/ shadow bought/paid

for/stepped out of/ and left there

an old dress or some jeans dissolve

water drops onto grass

shine momentarily like glass as if the

growth of a new skin is a matter of sun-shucking

without the pain /

the flay.

#2

bone works through my curved back bruising flesh

haltered at my neck

is almost scored in black and red/still the ridges will

melt /not scar/ those

those are hidden from view in places where no healing

will suffice the sun/ they

are coloured mauve/ satin

sheened/ rivulets/threads/a spider-web

no matter how many times the skin shucks

scars are present in its liquidity

its glistening sweat/ the violet ice of stitched skin

stays white(ened)

taut/ fresh as baby skin

while round it a moveable feast/ light shards

and new glittering/ new me

#3

old boning of the whalebone corset/ its rivets hold/

only illuminated in the dark

dark night/ moon-bled flakes lie in the black of soil/

my silica layers/ silica shed/ and

their dust/a dandruff/ shed already onto (...)

making me a comfort-bed in moss and root.