Poetry by Tamiko Dooley

Published by

on


Directions

we cannot be together.

this I know.

and yet, and yet 

when I close my eyes

I feel your lips against mine

your warm grip around my waist 

I breathe in the scent of your hair 

I am steering round and round that one roundabout in your hometown you described  

unable to turn off and move forward 

waiting one more minute before I indicate

and drive out into the world without you 


The End

and when you say it’s over

there’s relief at fear and adrenaline

dissipated but still, it’s an emptiness – 

hollow, and no one to share it with.

(did it happen if no-one knows?)

no photos, because it can’t be evidenced. 

I dig a trench: in it I place 

a handful of poems and 

memories of moments shared in the early hours

stored only in our minds.

I shovel in sand, so that 

even someone walking barefoot

wouldn’t notice a thing – 

only waves lapping at a serene shore

as they stare at where the sea meets the sky,

at depths filled with secrets we’ll never know. 


Les Mains Sales

during the French trip / mrs miyamoto’s wallet was snatched on the Métro / when we asked how / mrs sakai said someone had their hands somewhere they shouldn’t to distract her / i’ve wondered why they didn’t say A MAN SEXUALLY ASSAULTED MRS MIYAMOTO / because concrete words would have been less terrifying than someone, somewhere doing something / she could have taught us something more valuable than any grammar rule:

Say what happened.

It wasn’t your fault.

Nothing else matters.



Leave a comment