Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
Poem from Incarnation (Bloodaxe, 2017).
The star flitted into her mouth.
She tried to cough it out, but too late,
for the star had run down her throat
tracing a thread of light
from her tongue to her stomach
where it glinted through membrane,
skin and dress. When the doctor
came, and warmed his stethoscope
in his palms, he listened
to the light that fizzed in her gut.
“What do you hear, she said.
“I can hear the Milky Way.
He’s crying for his mother.
He needs a transfusion.
The girl climbed to the top
of the hill, leaned back
on the evening grass,
her arms and legs stretched out
to the tips of her fingers and toes
and the star shone up to the sky
as the treetops, the anemones,
the gentle stellar winds, breathed them in.
We meet on streets to prolong the catwalk, to lengthen arrival so it aligns more
commensurately with its anticipation. A street of three blocks or more with enough
pedestrians to heighten awareness and to raise a few false hopes at a glimpse of a
similar coat or swing of hair. Now that you're here, turn at the next corner. Go back
to approach me again.