Jenny Dunbar
you
you were always told
new skin grew over the mark,
the scab would dry out,
falling unawares,
if you left it to run its course that is,
avoiding
the temptation of the itch,
which you often could not resist,
you chose
the singularity of you
and
the collective option
when you sang in chorus
with you
saw the lazy eyed moon
in winter and you knew
it was you at the edge
falling
into
a feral dream,
its lazy eye wakes you at four a.m.
sets sail in your mind’s eye,
you and it
in juxtaposition
with juxtaposition,
you were the one, at one
with the darkling sky
set by twilight,
your footsteps melding with the sepia ways
through bracken woods
and corn gold,
you walked inside October’s fine shawl,
out into the sea
rolled with it,
breaking the cast of others’
shadows between the pools,
encountering the necessary mundane
chug chug of the day
where the collective
you,
the weary, despairing you,
breathed in tandem with
the falling moon,
waded deep through its frilly
rings,
knowing you
Jenny is a published writer of poetry and prose at present working on short fiction. She also makes abstract ceramics. Graduating from the Royal central School in London some years ago, she followed a career in the performing arts and has walked in many worlds. Her work appears in several publications including, Super Present, Vine Leaves press, Oye Drum and Capsule literary journal. Her first novel, Sweet Earth was published in 2014, followed by her anthology, Thoughts of Time, in 2016. She is one of the nominees for, best on the net, poetry, and the Push cart prize. Jenny is inspired by landscapes of all kinds and the juxtapositions of life in all their cadences.