neighbourhood watch
Natalie Perman
we left home at dusk / a man passed in jeans / and asked us where we lived / his hands held small cuts / like the beak of a bird / the skies were empty / the pigeons long retired / to picking straw spilled drinks in town / we live two doors down / he shook his head / his bottle of beer burst blue-green / frothing at the tip
town was twenty minutes by car / forty minutes by bus / Meredith breaking to blow fire into cigs / on the edge of a hill / a red scarf burned in circles / over her hips / the man’s phone flashed / as we walked away / a yellow raincoat spiking / like a traffic light / the cars slowed behind us / a group of men parked / and got out of an audi / carrying five identical water bottles / they were from town / they kicked the marbled horse shit / and hit the field
we pushed further into the bushes / the horses’ hooves echoed under the earth / like walky-talkies / our phone buzzed in our pocket / a picture of us / on the street whatsapp group / our shoulders slumped under the rain / our coats sick yellow / the moon vanished in the picture / like someone had run the sky over / with a paintbrush / we went home / around the corner / mrs sim’s daughter / was questioned by the police / for wearing sunglasses / at night / Joan peered out of her window / through a hole / in the thin lace curtain / stealing a glimpse / at imaginary hills.
you wish to be a poet
Natalie Perman
i
and I wish to tear your lips to silver so I can grind them under my teeth. the doctor removes my wisdom teeth; he plucks them out with a toothpick. they pop out like a pearl out of an oyster. I prod the empty spaces with my tongue like a dug-up grave; imagine the spaces in my mouth like the red-pink clam in the little mermaid, ariel opening a long tunnel.
ii
you shave a T into your scalp like a wishbone. you wipe your fingers on your back pockets: your jeans have welts that shift as you move, like a seal turning onto its back. you fry fish in a pan, red sparks of oil sliding off your hands like water. you hold a lemon in your palm and squeeze it whole. the hairs on your leg slide into you, soft as the dimple on a baby’s head from a kiss on their mother’s stomach.
iii
some perfumes are scented with pencils, their cedar wood. they have a smell you can feel in the palm, that you can smudge on paper. it links the mind to days staring behind whiteboards or hiding in girls’ bathrooms; parties that burst windows, ink in bathtubs, a candle filled with cigarette stubs.
iv
you call my name like a message in a bottle, like the seashell you hold to your ear in a car ride, feet salty and covered in sand. I want to hold you under me like a reflection, submerge you like a stone in my chest. soon I’ll turn over and see a line of your side, lit pink in the sun.