Cat Conway

Intermediate House Type No 5

I scrape paint in my council flat,

pulling sheets of wet wallpaper,

layer after layer of green, pink,

texture, faux wood, trim.

A Belgian tapestry emerges, red

mille-fleurs, around the doorframe.

Steam turns the cardboard walls to damp

paper bags, easy and satisfying to scrape.

Watery tendrils hang from the ceiling,

a rainforest canopy bordering my living room.

The heat moistens the plaster, stoking the earthy

scents of water, sand, rocks, cement

and I am back in Mexico, spring in the borderlands,

building houses, mixing concrete by hand.

We shoveled and churned, water breaking rocks

as the spades hit, slapping sand into mud.

Eventually we fell into sync: shove, lift, turnover, step,

shove, lift, turnover, step

There is always so much work to do.

Rust Belts

Hellfire is coke and limestone in a blast furnace.

I saw Hell from El Paso

as we drove through the Borderlands –

yellow lights dotting the abyss

of American refineries on Mexican soil –

cheap labour, low wages.

No hope.

I saw Hell in East Chicago:

Bethlehem Steel built here

among dark satanic mills,

towers of obsidian rising into a rusted sky,

hugging a Great Lake of fire.

Damned in denim and hardhat headlamps

eat beans and chilies, red pepper,

roasted pig iron, tamales

they want ice water.

I could see Hell in Sheffield:

Sooty faces, the fallen in flannel,

blasting molten rock into white hot ribbons,

cold rolled onto chrome bobbins; scalding

slag into mountainous, dusty heaps.

Dead embers, clink of metal on metal

an echo of cooled ash.

I do not fear Hell.

I hug the spit and the smoke smells of home.

Fan Club

On the floor of barricaded bedrooms,

wrists bleed ribbons into pink cotton.

edible jewelery, pink cotton, candy-coloured eyeshadow palettes,

buttery lip gloss, cheap cologne ampuless, rubber bracelets,

Scraping through each shattering year,

praying to our smouldering rock gods,

glittery hair slides, neon eyeliner, used acne pads,

half-empty packs of bubble gum, notes passed in class,

broken headbands, heart-shaped stickers,

offerings in supplication on bedroom dresser altars:

Please save us.

images of icons and saints cut from the pages of magazines

cassettes without cases, cases without cassettes,

inky vinyl 45s, empty soda cans

They do not answer.

Scabs picked open, weeping wounds mar

scars; worn with pride, badges of honour.

Cat Conway is a financial journalist and student at the University of Greenwich researching The White Goddess in Sylvia Plath’s Ariel. Her work has previously appeared in Magma, Bitch, the upcoming Hyperkinetic: High Velocity Tales from the Inner City anthology from Phoenix Publishing and academic journal Plath Profiles 3.

Promote. Poetry.
FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestBlogger PostTumblrGoogle GmailLineYahoo MailRediff MyPageKindle ItGoogle BookmarksShare