International Workers’ Day

by Holly Pester

I was put into a rare recovery position
(the shape of bog people in loose rope)
My niece sings a song under her fleece
He only had to peep in, to peep in, but he still couldn’t do it
I hand her two lions to put in her cheeks, purple and yellow
There’s too much to do around here
What is wrong with her?
I have a dragon problem and need help from the giant story
I pretend to eat a wooden radish – are you selling or is it a gift?
Pretend to kiss the grey spill
That’s a real island – they’re pointing at my earring
Someone is very small she’s crawling over my knees and whispering to her brother, why did she come here? You cannot move, you mean something else
Not your plot, particular dirt, the plot, its expressive stillness
She fell and slapped her head on my laptop
\,   5     name the poem, devotional shipwreck
Women lie down in various rooms of the house
taken in by an older brother’s homeopathic handling
edged up to the dinner table
Glasses in memory of running to another flat with socks on, she’s on
the kitchen floor
The kitchen floor?
This is the seabed, a melted spine, proto-storytelling
Use the swan-necked spider to get past an obstructing ball
No problem, you guys look great together, I’ll just dissolve
This avenue gets more political every time I walk it
William Blake never left town
A man with a gentle Northern voice shouts with real excitement, “Has it nestled? Has it
nestled?” it has
it’s soaking