When seaweed is Medusa’s hair
the powder for her wig
is salt, a menacing grind
of dried out sea-spray.
Mint, the finished colour,
lies in trails on crusted sand; we
feel it safe to step on a tendril,
pricking of granite in our pores.
Rain will put the hiss
in this tangle; snake-skin
recovering sheen,
tongues meeting drop.
Andromeda
Before they placed you in the sky,
you were already stitched from stars . . .
Star of grace: more lustre than light,
outshining a dangerous rival.
Star of hope: you shivered alone, water
a lapping ghost at your heels.
Star of a saviour: he wielded a sword,
sharper than each crested wave.
Stars uncrossed: you linked up, fell
in love with your slayer of monsters,
buried their heads as you lifted your
own; cheek to cheek to a night dance.
Sandstone Hands
I wash my sandstone hands in the sea,
counter their heat with icy surf,
but the red has seeped deeper, settles
in the gaps between knuckles, travels
in dotted pain
to a place where my heart beats full and bloody,
pounds every step, every household task,
and I wonder if water is only a liquefied version
of sun, burns and brands as much as it cleanses,
makes me detest my own skin.
_________
K. S. Moore's poetry has recently appeared in New Welsh Review, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Honest Ulsterman, Boyne Berries, The Stinging Fly and Southword. Shortlists have included: Trim Poetry Competition, Americymru West Coast Eisteddfod Poetry Competition and Blog Awards Ireland. K. S. Moore shares poetry and other thoughts at ksmoore.com.