It was probably well acquainted with the floor.

Creases at war, over fabric at which

To settle their constant ridges; an ingrained

Mountain range in the crevice of an elbow.

Pocket’s chiselled to the contours of fists

Invitations of feeble warmth, the seams of denim

Fatigued.

Stippled punctures stand to attention, rattles

Orchestrated with the oscillation of a foot;

the jangling chatter of electric illustrations,

that pattern the monochrome of a New Wave.

Acid charcoal for collar pelt, dampened

By the shadows of yesterday’s rain,

Tobacco spiced cologne marinating the strands, it’s scent

permeating the lull of a classroom; I could smell

It, on a Monday morning, both

the smoke and staleness of unfinished homework.

It’s funny, how the grooves of aged clothes sit

like eyes in the back of heads; seams unravelling,

that sutured the threads of once,

a stranger. A self-portrait

maturing, every stitch, fragmented wisdom

Like pensive retrospection from an arm-chaired grandmother.

The back, a portrait through curdled paint brushes.

An attack of crooked ivory, a patchwork silhouette

The sweat of a Wednesday evening, my palette

of cheapened chalk. Its own exhibition with

an offering from us each, if only a candle stick

stuck through the flesh of buttonholes, and garlands

sown into stretched pockets, it should really belong on a wall

in Brixton. It would be closer that way.

 

– Mia Roe