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Artwork: The Lake of Faces by Will Jacques

Then, She Floats
Helena Astbury

    for a moment, before
sliding on death tilt, head back
                          to the marsh bed.
No air.

Sand disturbs black mourning
flakes living in lungs, before
piping past lips, after
trying through eye sockets.
Silt finds a rip in her.
Heavy, heavy heart weighting
down foamed limbs and the water
keeps filling her and the sand
keeps milling through her, before
                                                 she is sunk.
Flattened to the bed
she is a petticoat anchor
the jellyfish admire her
frills as they spark by, before
they lay their chorus line

then, she moves
     for a moment, before
the water is heaving her and the sand
is leaving through her, thrown up
                                                  skirts first
     for a moment, before
rising to her bled black feet
                   on the marsh beach.
Cold air.

Her waters escape and the herons
try catching crabs retreating
down raw shins scraped
along bladed border.
She is walking.
Heavy, heavy hips unlocked
and the water keeps willing her
and the sand keeps moving her on, before
the jellyfish from before say
                                       She has done this before.
Cormorants bring her
eyes to her fingers and the water
slides them in and the sand
keeps them in, before
light spills into farther sight –

her bones remember and her hands
pull arms out of shoulders
out of rage and she screams water
wails and her hair sets alight –
                            the Gulls give way
then, she runs
      for a moment, before
her ribs give way and
                       then, she falls
heavy, heavy skull clattered
                                on rock fins and the water
grabs her ankles and the sand
                        steals her eyes, before
they are taken
for a moment, before
she sees her skeleton being
                                 pushed underriver.
Cruel air.

Then, she floats
       for a moment, before
sliding on death tilt, head back
                                            to the marsh bed.

**************************************************************************

These Men Past
Helena Astbury

She lies in bed as these men
march past.

She heard them ignoring her stairs
taking the hill that isn't there
instead

bringing boot after warred boot
they file through her
attic
                                             to elsewhere.

She's no historienne but these men
look like they loved and lost longer ago than her
                       house

She's no physics tamer but these men
look like they aren't touching her
                       floor

She's no ghost-plot listener but these men
look straight through her
                     walls

She felt them feeling nothing
passing through her eaves
unaware

bringing bold sweat and old leather
they heave through her
bricks
                                     to somewhere.

She lies in bed as these men
darken past

as quick as they come
                                           to light.