Gillian Prew		making of a middle-aged woman caged glossing of                        fractured hair in plates of heat             each                                                 oozing a scintilla of desperation morning              after                        mo(u)rning                              & eyes drawn black lashed back         one on the grave         one in the womb but the irises still deep      blue    some                                                           times           green as despondent foliage sometimes her skin withstands the need her hands are brave with scars & soft nails the bogus red of lip    slips into the shape of question                              when? or      why? this glass reflects not just her face but the shape of her answers            she sees them `                                                                they come from behind               (vibrant) tell her that time is but a place to       grow & sometimes             a love story her neck declines honestly      there                                                         part of the story is written		only kisses matter                                       the brutal drowning of lull is (d)elusively buoyed by authored amulets starving chalices of hope    gilded as the cheeks of children             the flesh of blush & wonder                        the honesty of pauper wishes                                              racked, cracked & traceable to the very colour of eye            the flimsy lip            the open hand the desperate shape of quashed resurrection …………steadily                              memory hooks                 clamps with spindly fingers tougher than metal tool, binds senses to the past & the present project becomes one of re-forgetting                                 grasp the wave now share its pattern                                 open-mouthed salty blood on testing tongue says “love me”, coats cloudy teeth in human ache                         veering                 away from a redundant charm in “love me”, the wounds become the wounded & only kisses matter