Poetry by Jennifer Brough: Redefinition
Fear is a taste that will leave your tongue
to be replaced by something unfamiliar, vaguely fermented.
Ties have been snipped and corners dusted.
Give away your possessions.
It’s almost time.
The moon creeps into her fullness.
On this night, sleep with your window open
and a shallow dish of water on the sill,
add a drop of blood and lavender.
Watch a candle until it burns out
or sleep inhales you.
Prepare for a dream of vivid colours
that radiate in your palms
against a sonorous sky.
You are alone but loved
both vague and sated.
It will be raining.
You will not feel different at first – or for some time –
but the dish will be empty and your feet dirty.
Embrace the gentle ache in your bones,
treading liminal space is tiring,
but be patient, little one, for the veil is lifted.
When you rise, brush your hair and wash your hands.
Relish in the slowness of such repetitive actions
eventually, you will not recognise yourself in a mirror.
This fragile image will be replaced by a truer form
that lies beneath all known margins.
The atoms between air hum as you walk
more coincidences happen – perhaps they always did –
but now you invite them in.
You will be asked if you changed your hair or grew taller.
When you wink at the pansies, they wink back.