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.