Lighthouse
Winter cleans the shore of visitors
the water exhales, stretches out on the rocks
summer’s sun-glistened crests and silver fish bellies
made grey and opaque under powdered sky.
you light a lamp for the season
and sit in brined solitude with her,
0520 awake, barometric readings,
brush cobwebs from the cupola?
the endless day unfurls
you, her, machina.
here is madness, and respite
browns and greys and greens that stain
cold-frothed foam and tangled seaweed,
rusted fishing lines strewn in sand.
she laps up your footprints, swallows you whole
until the first buds of pink sea roses
burst across the shore,
1200 / a warm breeze on the horizon
the great yellow eye rolls to guide it in.
June
Rent is due again, and the warm season
brings sun-dried pleasure, easy listening,
orange slices bitten down to the rind
breakfast is coffee and an ice lolly
Trailing sugar-blue ribbons down your arm
London is blistering and steaming as the soles
of your feet in workday loafers
dreams of swimming pool bottoms, clear blue and tiled
meld into nightmares of emails neglected,
railway accidents, a slipped finger severed down to the joint
beside a half-diced onion
no one can sleep and the days are mirages.
is it tuesday? bus drivers lean on their horns
the roses in the garden are scorched and bruising
this is the weather for fat-bellied
oyster shells scooped empty
and kalamata olives with cold robola, island breeze
not plastic-wrapped melon, mealy in the mouth
£2.29 for ten puddled cubes
best enjoyed between a meal deal and meeting
empty storm promises, radio static:
slow-dripped madness infused in the
heated domestics that stick to porous walls
and that age-old adage: rent is due again.
Beast of St. Marks
You move with the diligence of a priest,
gliding down avenues, palms aloft
face pale, your eyes rolled under moonlight
man of the cloth in acid-wash jeans
smoke trailing in your wake,
you swing the roll paper like a censure
and you mumble to the night,
that sky bloated black and starless,
those buildings locked and rusting,
jesus god fuck
then you fall and the illusion evaporates
you strike the earth like lightning
knees kissing the pale pavement in remembrance
on the train, the woman in red barks at the walls
and yells at rush hour commuters
strangers stick their bodies to the sides
fingers jerking away from a flame
she catches someone’s eye in the window and hisses,
the place is hot and dense, walls perspiring
she passes between the cars in bare feet
now behind glass they stare: slick head, grey skin, she is unbecoming
flickering in and out of being in the tunnel mouth
and the air in the car settles like rot
a modern Gehenna thundering past 59th Street.
now, she meets you on the concrete,
and lifts you from your penance
and whispers of clear water streams,
sweet bread, salt-crusted oysters, goose eggs, saffron
she peels fruit for your open throat
and crushes the rinds beneath her calloused heel
you will bathe in sapphires, she tells you
her finger is a needle and she points at the milky dawn,
and scoops you to your feet, and slides her arm in yours,
and that’s how you walk
lurching down the avenue as the world yawns awake.
*
Gabrielle Showalter (she/her) is originally from New York, but now lives in North London. She graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 2021 with an MA in English Literature. She currently works in publishing.
New Critique 