Three poems from 'The Girl Aquarium' by Jen Campbell
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The Exorcism of the North Sea
by Jen Campbell On Sundays we sing. Ghost birds. You lead us to the southern cliffs with our Girl Guide tents. The sun is ours. We have verses to prove it, tucked in the hems of our midwinter pockets. We are snow globes. Along the rows of whitewashed caravans young boys peer out and whistle if their mums aren’t home. Everything is seen through murky glass. The sea lurches. Someone should save the soul of her. Lukewarm and watered down, holding all the girls in bathing suits. We stretch out our carol sheets and hum like bees. |
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The Doll Hospital
by Jen Campbell
(NB: for formatting reasons, this poem is best viewed on a desktop)
First, they say, you must think of the shape.
Hold it.
The question-marked spine.
The colour of the eyes and if you look closely
the fox-tongue-rabbit-heart-barely-there grin.
We each make half. Carved.
Kneading grey the texture of calf tongue.
I lick the edges, fold an envelope ear
and listen for wings. Moth or magpie or dragonfly beats.
My mother claimed I had changeling feet
dancing in dirt water pulling a ragged doll
through fairy rings when she summoned me home for tea.
I cup my palms.
Little fishling.
I wonder if we should roll her hair like starfish.
Watch it flicker the colour of raspberry-plum.
We hum, take turns. Pirouette
her little body so her organs align marbled planets.
Hush.
How ridiculous that we should be allowed to craft,
and mould and hope as we coat her in a water glaze
then bake.
In the dying light we rest and wait.
Up north, they say, if you cover their limbs in hospital white
you might later dig for victory.
So we pull on our shoes and step out into snow.
It is a long road.
We bury our porcelain children in the flickering woods.
Our soiled hands tangled in juniper roots
and you hand me a crown fit for an unmarked country.
by Jen Campbell
(NB: for formatting reasons, this poem is best viewed on a desktop)
First, they say, you must think of the shape.
Hold it.
The question-marked spine.
The colour of the eyes and if you look closely
the fox-tongue-rabbit-heart-barely-there grin.
We each make half. Carved.
Kneading grey the texture of calf tongue.
I lick the edges, fold an envelope ear
and listen for wings. Moth or magpie or dragonfly beats.
My mother claimed I had changeling feet
dancing in dirt water pulling a ragged doll
through fairy rings when she summoned me home for tea.
I cup my palms.
Little fishling.
I wonder if we should roll her hair like starfish.
Watch it flicker the colour of raspberry-plum.
We hum, take turns. Pirouette
her little body so her organs align marbled planets.
Hush.
How ridiculous that we should be allowed to craft,
and mould and hope as we coat her in a water glaze
then bake.
In the dying light we rest and wait.
Up north, they say, if you cover their limbs in hospital white
you might later dig for victory.
So we pull on our shoes and step out into snow.
It is a long road.
We bury our porcelain children in the flickering woods.
Our soiled hands tangled in juniper roots
and you hand me a crown fit for an unmarked country.
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Netted
by Jen Campbell And then they caught us. Eyes shoutin like they was radio. Me hair aal up in their fists like a cloud. It’s long now. Down t’ma navel – cause then aal the black is like a cave what I sit in. What I can sing in. W’voices hidin in aal the corners like I’m radio, too. And then they caught us – me ’n’ Caitlin. We was dancin our way yem. Fairgrounds in wor eyes blazin out like dancin lions and me stomach a stinkin jellyfish aal zip-zappin around. And then they caught us when we was whisperin. And their fingers got me mouth. The hiccoughs of the ocean aal drippin down wor blouse. And the sounds was gannin manic like we was trapped underground. And then they caught us. Said we was danger. Said our queer souls was a well -- lookin at us like w’fishes what swam but should’ve drowned. Yet, I think me soul’s a lighthouse and I cling t’Caitlin’s arm. Our voices singin from aal the corners like we’s mermaids in the dark. |