It was August when I started drinking perfume.
The blackberries had gone too far again and I saw
no Seamus in that. No furs, just jewellery and scent –
god, that scent. Like the smell of sunsalt skin, when
inhaling a check shirt flirting with the floor is not
enough and the rough wool catches your tongue.
I take tea thyme curled in a moka pot with a shot of
full cream dream. The Greek god of tiny little cups
erupts – washes down all that poetry, honeysuckles me.
I’m not ashamed to say I’ve lapped his bathwater like
a trapped cat. It’s all very well eating the enemy,
but woman cannot live by sticky willows alone.
Jane Murray Bird
Jane Murray Bird lives on the edge of Edinburgh and writes performance poetry for plants in return for food. Her work has been published in magazines including Magma, Mslexia, Under the Radar, Poets Republic and Freak Circus.