Wendy Lennon

Wendy Lennon is a poet and writer who is working toward the publication of her first collection. Her poetry is beautiful, visceral and muscular.

‘The first few are about my early life.  Maestro is about the targeted racist comments teachers could get away with in the 80s.  Erase Mother’s Tongue is about my mum’s Jamaican accent.  Ultimatumand Blitz are about my parents’ split and the aftermath of my father’s death that led to my mum’s slow painful descent which culminates in the poems Fourteen and Sixteen.  These poems are even more poignant this year as my daughter is now the age I was, and this year also marks twenty years since I was sixteen and homeless.
Single Mum was a three-page rant about all I must hold together, but after rereading and heavily editing, I realise it comes down to the few simple words I’ve kept in the poem.  After working my ass off to get into and through university and teacher training (with my children) the final two poems, Sunlight and Display Board are about my experiences of being a secondary school English teacher.
I find it extremely frustrating that I have felt the need to hide my life experiences behind my professional role and persona, when I could really help these girls and women.  That’s why I write; for the girls and women I have been, and still am.  I have managed to go part time to teach three days a week, slowly edging my way out of institutionalised teaching that restricts rather than helps children and teachers.  I’m no longer willing to hide myself and my life, especially knowing that I can help people.’
All poem are copyright of Wendy Lennon 2018, and contact with her can be made via info@joelletaylor.co.uk

 

Maestro

 

Bobbing in a blank sea, corked,

conductor waves baton frantically

flowing electrical current

bolts through

iced assembly hall; melts

deluge engulfs me

“The pigment in some

people’sskin,”

maestro gestures

to wood winded me,

“makes them heavier,

so that when theyswim,”

I, saturated by blank sea,

flap front crawl doggy

paddle drenched

“they will drown.”

Flooded by

scales

weighed up

impaled by

brass strings

submerged by rhythm

of blank sea, blank sea waves

I sink

 

I sink

 

I sink

 

 

I sink.

 

Ultimatum

by Wendy Lennon

 

He, traces brown veins

encased in mustard lino squares

draws boundary line edges.

 

She, sits, slots, solders

resistors into motherboard

smoke singe

globules of warmed silver

wobble, bubble, harden, hold.

 

I, nibble nails and dead skin

bleeding erupts, thread of skin still clings

lingering flap skin.

 

“So, who do you want to live with then?”

 

Sickle of her question mark

splices my head

decapitated

finger bled.

 

“Daddy!”  outburst

cling to parent blind eye saw first

not final decision

derision.

Eyes curse my betrayal

screeching plea left her black skin pale.

 

Crow’s feet creases

frame his eyes

funnel tears down cheek

land in lino pools beneath my feet.

 

Blitz

 

Square scrubland

wastes away near garage,

stiff sway dry grasses

dented cans gather in their masses,

held to ransom

by forgotten seeds,

stifling weeds,

suffocating sugary drunk insects can’t breathe.

 

Butterflies hang heavy on purple buds

flick lick gold yellow laden anthers.

 

She slinks, slithers white web weave

damaged spider’s home

crowns her head, striding beside dusty garaged throne.

 

Garage haemorrhaged

throne, toys, dingy, mix tapes, fridge –

 

phut phut phut

phosphorous flints –

 

 

murder blankie baby bits

flame licks photo frame

trike buckles melts

doll eye lolls back

eye blink shut

eyelashes singe

flames catch, burn fringe

letters curl twist

childhood trinkets life built blitzed

chasm of ash smoulders near garage

infertile ground of their marriage

 

Fourteen

 

Nails sink in skin

pluck, unfurl her grip; desolate, desperate, grim.

Wrench, uncoil

spring from grip, defiant little girl,

attempts to keep me, I’m determined to foil.

Needs me;

need me too.

vodka, ciggies, arcade crew –

escape

run.

Daren’t turn, hear her sink to knees in defeat

I (defiantly, selfishly, self-preservingly) race down the street.

 

Ciggy pinch pulls my chest

fire tip burns

release clamp grip.

 

Couple snogging

ciggy haggling

machine lights flashing

under current swirling

threatens my unfurling

sinking under vodka’s blind grip

grab nearest boy

tongue down throat sure to soothe it

doctored coke swapped between lips,

swig, see nail imprint on skin

remind

unsoothe

remove.

 

Stumble on slope

elbow nudges shrub

disturb moth

flaps, disperses dusting

scurries, cowers under purple bud.

 

Tongue sticks to roof of mouth

hand on hip to steady myself

cloying coke ciggy breath

congeal in cupped air above

smudged lips

wince

fling head back in self disgust

smack skull on house red rust

 

lumped bruise

nape of neck

concealed by coily curls

always knotted, never be plaited

or straightened or curled

unless risk skin singe.

 

Beyond open door                                          jumble of furniture

 

scattered across floor

 

tangled wood, splintered mirror, unrecognisable

(though within the same perimeter)

 

step into calmed mess

chaos flung flew during her distress

 

see chink of light                                               across scatter tip toe

 

Yellow boxes smashed open

 

crushed tablets filled grooves

on bread board, where knife once methodically moved

put herself in deep

end of life sleep

not even for me

not because of me

no me,

for six voices, not one of them me.

 

Candy striped sheets

covered in sick

breathe tick

breathe tock.

 

Cries, moan

police bash door, so she’s not alone

bathroom suite (avocado gold)

clings to basin stand, strong hold

straight jacket forces flaying limbs hug body

blankets wrapped hide jacketed body

discretion in village always been shoddy.

 

Faked being sane

fooled white doctors again and again

although she let me see her secret pain

between the split in her heart broken brain.

 

Erase Mother’s Tongue

 

Lilt of grandma’s voice, dance,

roll hips, reggae entrance.

Pop, pop, pop of shelling peas,

thrive with ease;

rooted in Jamaican soil,

despite fifty years of Midland toil.

Mother Tongue not soiled,

community voices simmer, boil.

 

My mother’s tongue forced to rot.

Speak English English or shut up.

 

Dad corrected,

Truth infected,

dead lips, stand corrected.

 

Wanted to fit in,

dead ears if Truth she spoke in.

Fear of her black skin,

country folk fiercely delicate kin,

won’t twist ears to listen in.

Erased lilt

no need to tilt

too much to ask

cover voice in standard English mask

cover in disgrace

voice displaced

home misplaced

watched it fly away

whipped up by hurricane

watched it on the news one day;

tears,

blinded for years.

Dismay;

their home dead

Truth dead

coffin in her head.

 

 

Sixteen i

 

Yellow boxes forces

oxidised enzymes

turns injured

flesh colourless

precursor brown,

shrivelled, kicked, clutching

plastic bag that contains

me,

saved

from fire, frantic

nights, death

wrecking.

 

Clung against metal,

even the lady in the

fruit and veg shop will

no longer devour

me, scours now at

what I’ve become

disgusted by bites

chomped, the

mmmmmmmmm

wwwwwwwwww

of teeth marks

clomped out, linger

I walk towards –

 

 

Single Mum

 

Hold;

never

held.

  

Sunlight 

 

Elbow refusal

to bow to rules

almost admire ability

to do whatever he may choose

until his desire

inverts

perverse

Elbow blocks blind

refuses to allow me to unwind

SLT peer in

‘Is Miss being unkind?

I’ll let you off your detention,

good boy pay attention’

I bow to him and them

schlepped through uni             alone          with babies at my hem

can’t give up just yet

Twists

wrists

just so

positioned carefully where the light will flow

from window to watch to my cheek

won’t admit defeat

scurry to my left a few feet

turn, twist, tilt

just so

where the sunlight flows

from my cheek to my neck to my breast

peals of laughter

at me being lightly undressed

by fifteen-year-old boy

who treats SLT like toys

Issue C3s

try to calm whipped up sea

‘Nah Miss, it weren’t me I didn’t do nuffin’

Tilt

direct hit

belly button

sunlight slices line

gut hook zipper

down to top of knicker

line, some kids snicker

unaware, I continue to deliver

spotlight on pubic area

causes class mass hysteria

victory

over me

dismiss class, admit defeat

working class white boy on data target sheet

boy like him free to roam corridors and street.

Display Board

by Wendy Lennon

 

Peeling borders

expose bloodied staple disorder

crack

mismatched

s  t  r e  t  c  h  e  d, can’t reach that

gap

between

need           and             education

(that’s expensively free)

cost of deadening soul

children’s need can’t console

controlled

by borders

limits cause disorders

nothing fits

wherever I stick it

used to be

consistently

for hard work and care

now, it’s for tick box

wage paid

hungry bills cling to board

balancing

(health and safety illegally)

stretch roll of backing

that’ll have to do –

really, it’s a job for two –

cover with quotes, images, held by wordy glue

all complete, functional, paid, defeat

displayed deceit

captive borders stop

womb children seeing me

staple plucked from family

time cost

of teaching within corrugated perimeters

exams insufficient barometers

exams mean fuck all, soul’s downfall

forced to pin grade boundaries to wall

ambiguous measure can’t measure how tall

how high reach beyond sky.

 

Day three:  Little Jimmy peeled border

slaughtered quotes

leaving me frustratingly provoked

until I see that little Jimmy

wasn’t trying to annoy me

he was showing me

escape route of the free, unchained, uncorrugated me.

Johanna Piritta Peltonen

I met Johanna Piritta Peltonen while delivering a masterclass in Helsinki. She is an extraordinary writer, and gifts us with the incredible line ‘I started the tea/ the sea is my fault.’ She does not currently have a website, but you can contact her directly via: piritta.peltonen@gmail.com

  JUST VISITING

Lead by dreamy shoulders

and backing hands

to a table of history and stomachs

The air is open

 

II            My favourite edible things –

prawns and love

I want to eat his eyes to be safe

 

III           I rise, walk

attack the blinking lights

submit to the light knives

Fear has entered

with surgeon’s determination

 

IV          I return to the ring of stomachs

Crab in a tank

with tied-up scissors

Plates staring

polished

Slowly-licked forks waiting

 

V            Hugged tightly by death

My tiny head pushed down

into the invisible water

I started the sea

The sea is my fault

 

VI          Sudden lemon juice squeezed

from the sky

Snap say the scissors

He builds me back

street by street

word by word

 

October 2018

Winifred Wong

 

Winifred Wong is a Singaporean writer of both poetry and prose. She attended a masterclass I gave at Sing Lit Station in September 2018. In the masterclass, I invited participants to create Canto’s (a chant poem, separated into distinct scenes, almost cinematic) around one part of their life experience they wished to explore, and to develop a central extended metaphor through which that narrative could best be told.

In this poem, Wong uses the metaphor of a game of Monopoly to explore her relationship with her mother, and the changing power dynamics within that relationship. She also separates the scenes by counting up, and then counting down – an effective device to explain that changing dynamic.

monopoly

1.

 

funny that i’m starting in jail.

but i wait my turn

there’s no zero on the die.

side by side

with top hat.

 

the phone rings –

her voice

asking if I have eaten

or done my homework

 

sometimes, i call

but children are allowed to be lonely.

 

 

i get a six

and cheer.

there’s not enough space

in a box

for two.

 

 

“top hat snails

while race car zooms ahead!”

she tips forward

watching my progress

my car horn does not reach her anymore.

 

i meet other pieces

coming out from the bank

we share the same numbers

for a while.

 

 

passing trees

stock still

my phone is silent.

 

she’s not in my rearview.

 

i pull over to let others pass.

exit car, hands on hips, stretch

it is strenuous to do nothing.

 

i text her to meet me in the next town.

 

 

a call.

she has landed on a bad spot

handing all her notes away

downgrades to purse

and doesn’t roll anymore.

 

 

she hears my horn behind her.

 

Harini

Harini is a young woman poet based in Singapore. We met when I facilitated a masterclass at the legendary Sing Lit Station, as part of my Australia/ South East Asia book tour of 2018. Harini is just beginning her journey into literature, but is already creating sweeping cinematic pieces like this one below.

This poem is guttural, sparse and essential, a brilliant evocation of the after-effects of sexual abuse; that feeling that something is trapped inside us, some new thing about to be born, some monster.

When Harini has gained a little more confidence, I hope to also publish her full name along with further examples of her work.

 

Flies

  1. The little girl is sitting in a living room.

There is a rumble within the sofa

Travelling

Up her buttocks

Across her chest

Into her eyes.

It’s the kind of shudder that births dead things.

Fault lines are spewing flies.

There is a cloud of them over her head.

 

  1. There is a little worm sat next to her.

She tucks the soles of her feet away from it

She knows it will tickle.

She’s too busy looking to the flies to know

The path it took into her chest.

 

  1. Tummies are not made for worms.

Wombs must not birth flies.

 

  1. Did you know flies are attracted to dead things?

 

  1. The girl will not know when they leave her.

The craters in her skin, volcanoes pouring pus from which they emerge

Unscathed

Tails hooking, pincers tearing,

climbing, sucking, eating.

Eating.

 

  1. The little girl is sitting in a living room.

There is a rumble in her womb

Travelling

Seeking release

It flips her insides upon her skin

For all to be freed.

All she is

Is a cloud of flies.

 

 

 

 

Tamsin Trevorrow

Tamsin Trevorrow is an activist, poet, public speaker and workshop facilitator. Focussing her work on exposing areas of injustice.
She has successfully initiated a programme called “A fighting Chance” which takes self defence and self empowerment classes to women at risk of trafficking and violence globally. She was orphaned by the age of 15 and then went into the care system facing exploitation and homelessness. She has become a seasoned and passionate fighter for the rights of oppressed people groups and uses her voice to tell their stories.

I AM

I am:  The fabric on which you left your stain

I am: the mind tortured and torn

I am: the shredded file you threw in the bin

I am: the child prostitute? But there’s no such thing!

I am: the music always playing within

I am: beautifully broken, gold fills the cracks you wove into my skin

I am: the crown you wear when you want new contracts!
Money, Money, Money
Ka ching!

I am: the sociopath, too damaged by age 5 to feel, apart from rage and fear that is!

I am: the empath, a sponge absorbing all pain, shame and grief

I am: the Mother too scared to ask for help in case “it” happens again

I am: the Mother not  knowing even where to begin!

I am: the college lecturer hiding his demons, mostly In  a bottle of gin

I am: the graduate
I am: the drop out
I am: the high flyer and low rider
I am all of these things!

I am: the one who lays awake at night
I am: the one who sleeps… with pills or drink

I am: the one with auto immune diseases the body keeps the score
No matter how many smiles are “worn”

I am: the child locked in the cupboard
I am: the black boy in the cell
shhhhh we won’t tell
If you don’t!

I am: Daddy’s girl, with multiple fractures long since healed
I am the one who regresses to a toddler when life throws “shit” beneath my wheels

I am: the boy they call the fantasist (why wouldn’t a child raised by wolves seem more real) Irony!

I am: pissed off with your beurocracy and a system that has failed
I am: done with being wheeled out at your fancy posh events for a voucher or 3
While your CEO creams a 6 figure salary from the children you steal!

I am: Not going to be silenced I am a warrior with a voice
Please let me be heard!
Whether I am riding on a wave crest or homeless in the dirt
I matter!
You see

I am: the over achiever you clap and give awards
But
I am: also the one serving time; carving scars in prison walls!

I am: cosy in my penthouse
I am: crawling in the gutter

I am: living to a ripe old age
I am: hanging from a rope
10 days dead in my flat and know one even knows!

I am: a statistic in the papers
I am: a number on your books

I am: everything you  said I am
I am: everything you thought I was not!

I am: a conundrum
I am: easily read

I am: human
I am: precious
I am: living I’m  not dead!

I am: lost
I am: found
I am: all and non of the above!

I am: a kid that’s been in care
And all I need is LOVE!

 

MEDICINE MAN

(For Anthony)

Darkness stalks in a box of pills
Cunning fox
Embracing snake
Whispering promises of sweet relief
“I’ll numb your pain and still your greif”
We slip them down with a watery drink into the cavernous depths of our souls beneath
“Takes two weeks for them to grip, relieve the itch to leap”
Or so they say!
I wait, I itch, I wait
There’s no relief
Comfortably numb would do
But no, this numbness is paralyzing glue!
It’s sticks my thoughts
My memories
To blackened stumps of deadend trees
A slow death this torturous process is
I didn’t want to feel the pain
But this!
I’m looking the ability to ever feel again!
“They work for some but not for others, let’s change the dose and the letters on the covers”
I listen to the voice of the medicine man cause I have no choice and I have no plan
But the truth is he is as much in the dark as me !
Apart from the pharmaceutical bonuses he receives !!

The numbers are increasing but the ignorance remains
The tablets are not working
They are driving us insane!
Irony
The cure for all our “mental ills” is not just a prescription and a bunch of pills!
There needs to be Love, care, nurture
Body, mind and spirit
STOP seeing me as a number or just a statistic!
Give me nutrition for my outward man
Love and healing for my soul
Address the inner trauma beneath the scared scars of old
You see I’m someone’s daughter, someone’s mother someone’s son someone’s brother
My medicated tears are streaming down my face
CAN YOU SEE THEM!
As I sit looking out the windows of this hospital cage
Trying desperately to be found so I can cast these heavy chains down on the ground
Finally
I want to feel the sunshine again… within
I want to love and not be drugged

I understand my complexities confuse you; they confuse me too!
But there must be a better  way, another way to set me free
I don’t want to do the “zombie walk” through stuffy corridors
I want to run on coastal paths like I did in days of old
This method is not working
Please be open, hear me, see!
Wipe the old formula from the slate
Let me LIVE again  before it’s too late

 

DD

slightly imperfect

 

I hear the panic

phone line cuts

I see her name

my daughter and I know

 

Denial

Don’t come around, I rang by mistake  she whispers;

another way she hides, not moving,

like a stiff corpse, voice clamped but I find her.

No matter how well she covers, holding her breath, her feet are always dangling in clear view.

 

Truth

I see her nose bruised and bleeding, wiping his spit from her brow,

blood runs through the kitchen like a flowing red satin ribbon,

ripped splatter of crimson on her cream jumper hurriedly hid under dirty tea towels.

My granddaughter’s small innocent frame mopping up the spill with toilet roll dabbing at the puddles that seep,

already in training to hide the abuse.

Lies

Her mouth tells me lies,

untruths and excuses,

I know this song -I know this dance

I see her I know her, I was her.

I still believe in my throat this blood is my fault,

my granddaughter’s shadow next to me, little fingers cling to mine -watching.

 

Stand-back

She has her own life

and although I want to rip his head off,

baptise him in a ring of fire,

I know I must observe and not disturb,

Arms length.

 

Helpless.

I want to scoop her back into my womb, away from male hands that hurt

Her story is my story and my granddaughter at four is learning love equals blood and the truth we mute.

Once upon a time

When I look at my grandchildren what do I see,

A world of possibility but will that ever be?

A daddy that takes heroin for his tea

A mammy that austerity cuts have left on her knees

My two Cinderella’s crushed by poverty giggles given freely crushed by poverty

Police don’t protect them -puts the blame on mam

Social workers don’t protect them insist that they see dad

The drug test promised to keep them safe isn’t done

They find themselves in danger hid in an unfamiliar room

Agencies blame funding like that makes a good excuse!

Mams benefits are sanctioned because mam didn’t get the letter

The letter the postman couldn’t deliver because dad had threatened to light the house whilst Cinderella s sleep

Result fireproof letterbox that failed to open

So, mums got no cash, no sleep but plenty of fear! crushed

Legal system don’t get me started let dad out within a few hours after every yes, every arrest

The wasted bravery it took from mam to go to court

He pleads guilty and a fine to pay at a penny a day

Solution by agencies move mam and Cinderella’s away

Her family scramble to get deposit for their rented escape

Dad roams safe streets whilst like hostages Cinderella s flee

Here one minute gone the next clock strikes midnight

There happily ever after is in a different county

Mams no choice but to re-apply and fight for every penny Cinderella’s need, crushed

Freezing cold, bright house loans no family to rely on,

Mams heart aches with love for the girl’s hush hush hush

 

Thanks to the cuts all in one bedroom they slumber Cinderella’s in a single bed and mam festering on the blow-up mattress on the floor

But at least they are safe

not our problem anymore

30% of Britons children are classed as poor in 2017

2/3 from working families

Half of all children in poverty are from single-parent families

Wake up. Children need you now.

Fragile

Shiny hair, high heels and lip-gloss

Back on the market looking for love

He presses against me, gets as close as he can

promises me, he is my ideal man

Rescuing me from feeling alone

I advance to him panting

I’ve found a safe home

He is my fragile man made of glass and I will softly hold him and not smash him

I’m a pup yapping “please love me please love me “

He disapproves with an eye squint

I’m just too much

Then he strokes my ego

With a wink from his green eyes

quickly I react to his commands

Sit -I will remain silent, shut my mouth, smile

Come- I will go directly to him no distractions

Good girl -Relief

He is my angry man made of steel and I deserve the beating

Down -clothes off, open legs he devours my naked flesh

Stay -remain still, numb you are a vessel for him to come -endure the pain

Release -my favourite words I now can move to bathroom and wash away his bodily fluids

Good girl -I Bork internally and pulse revulsion

 

He is my mistake man, but he makes me feel I can’t leave

 

One off

Stripped bare bent

His reflection behind me in the kitchen window

He only gets hard when I’m clenched shut

dry blistering in his erection

women’s design so easily to thread

Resistance from my head puts tension between my legs

forced into submission

 

“One off “‘my mind says he loves me

 

The weight on my body startles me awake

Dreamlike I pat his naked flesh

I’m paralysed in shock this is real

I play dead whilst he slams

Still I remain whilst he plays

Till it trickles into a patch underneath me

My body swerves to escape the wet

 

“One off “my mind says he loves me

 

Good Hiding

Always be nice, smiling immunises,

learn to engage not giving self away

pan stick apply -maximum coverage minimum effort

drape scarfs to hide bites and hand marks.

 

Long sleeve tops to hide the dents

flat shoes for running

cigarettes and alcohol to sedate

medicate often, sleep a welcome break.

 

Phone is a tag

curfews and monitors

given on conditions

that will not be broken.

 

Loyal bestie number on recall

safe word agreed she knows the score

£10 hid under the bed

driving licence, keepsakes, creep to front door.

 

Stay low,

Dodge,

Weave,

Smile

 

Leave

 

Getting Served

The ice cream van of friendship hits my street,

blasting out  I’m a survivor and I’m on my feet;

she offers me 2 scoops of      it’s time to move on     with an extra sprinkle of

                        you are enough and a flake of                                                        you rock

She delights in throwing the nuts on the

melting

mess

hands on hips                            we got this                         sauce

All aboard.

Janet Philo

Parents’ Evening

The skirt was heather tweed. Smart and practical for school. It fit me then; the hips were straighter. It rustled when I walked. I liked that – it felt a bit posh when you rustled. The rustle was so loud, I didn’t hear him behind me. His gaze was hot on my back.

I’d shown him the bite marks. The bruises were under thick tights – not for showing. I wondered about human saliva – isn’t it poisonous when it enters a wound? I told him about the boy; autism still controlled his flailing arms, and kicking feet. He was young. I would guide him towards an understanding of the rules. Eventually.

The tall grey man smiled; sovereignty spread across his face, like jam – too thick.  He could help – he said.

A pair of eyes, in a seven year old face, screamed for help. The corner of a wooden building block hovered above her skull. It was my job to shield skulls from bricks, shins from shoes, and arms from teeth. I wrapped my adult arms around this small, hot ball of energy; he was a power-surge; a circuit working on a different set of switches.

Later, parents waited outside. The door would open at seven o’clock. My professional mask hung, freshly ironed, on the back of the classroom door. Fingers wrapped a mug of tea. It warmed the teeth marks; a reddening landscape, rippling across the back of my hand. I accepted the thought of infection. No help was coming.

Six fifty five. The door opened. I was putting on the mask – still vulnerable. I stood up as he came in, made room for his authority. He took my vacant space. My chair had wheels – he moved easily towards me. The movement of his arms was quick, strong and unexpected. I questioned reality, or my understanding of it. We were somewhere else now.

His lap was soft and warm – I didn’t stay long enough to feel it harden. His arms were hard enough. I had no breath left; he had squeezed it out of me.

“That’s how you restrain them – you don’t need to go on a course – no money in the budget.”

It was the cold eyes I hated most. He never spoke to me again.

Kym Deyn

Rare as Hen’s Teeth

all of the women in the room have my mother’s face.

they cluck the chatter of battery hens turned loose

onto grass, uncertain of their habits,

each spitting out hen’s teeth.

we strip them, bind them in cotton to keep.

we flinch with each as though

scratched at the gums, the dentist makes us

speak, our mouths filled with water

and clattering instruments.

the image of my mother refuses

to join us.

 

I am the Barbie doll from the boot sale

with children’s scissors taken to its hair,

shorter and shorter. I think I got called A Queer

for the first time yesterday.

I don’t know what to tell them.

 

I’m jealous of Barbie. look under her dress.

I spent the evening in the mirror,

where my collar bones

slope to nothing.

 

on forms people ask my gender,

I want to tell them “No Thank You.”

 

in warm rooms, women mill like cats and

talk about their wombs. they speak in unison.

my mouth is waiting for me to say that

I am not a woman. I wonder if my silence gives me

away.

Lyle

Kym Deyn

 

There are no reliable figures, but at least 0.4% of the UK population identifies as nonbinary/gender nonconforming.[1] I am one of them.

 

I was sat in one of our student accommodation flat-pack bedrooms when my housemate asked me my name and I couldn’t tell her. That night the moon had swallowed it. I waxed and waned in silver. The moon tried to hold me in her luminous gaze, she reminded me I make tides like her. Reminded me I was like her and like all the others like her. I am not, but my mouth had been glued shut with moon dust.

The rain broke a week later, and I couldn’t bear it. I sat on a window ledge and my housemate and I were bathed in yellow from her bedside lamp. When it was my turn to speak I told her I wasn’t a girl. The trees outside shook. I said, I have another name. I said listen– listen to the sound of it.

She said my name sounds like the rain at evening. Listen, she said, listen how the earth is calling you home.

 

The Avenue

I was caught in this moment, a sort of temporary madness. I wandered restless through the house, paused in doorways. I’d met something strange on my first day there, sat by the bay window in the sunshine and meditated. I liked to think it was the spirit of the place, I could feel it like a snatch of lavender in the air. I could feel it that day too and I entertained the daydream a moment longer.

I said, “Teach me something.” I stepped between the basement and the rest of the house. In the doorway I’m dizzy, like it was a house in a snow globe and some creature has just shaken it.

I felt like I’d seen her once, laid along the tarmac like a snake. There were shifting faces all down her back. I drew her on the whiteboard in the kitchen and it took a whole month before my flatmates erased it.

I moved to the kitchen and the light was grey and sharply angled, trying not to be there at all. I felt as though I was underwater. I saw the kitchen, I saw the ocean, choppy, and as grey as the light from the windows.

I swam to an island. I was standing in my kitchen. On the island was a fire, and beside it, a woman with dark hair and a shawl made of black wings. She whispered. I was startled back to the cupboards, but first I caught something that was almost like a deer—a pair of eyes watching from above all of this.

When I walked downstairs again, after almost half an hour, I was so dazed I missed the last three steps on the stairs and fell crumpled to the floor.

I realised later that the woman had whispered her name to me.

 

[1]Titman, N.  2014/12/16. “How Many People in the UK are Nonbinary?”. Practical Androgyny. https://practicalandrogyny.com/2014/12/16/how-many-people-in-the-uk-are-nonbinary/Accessed: 2018/07/02.