Cartoons
Like trepanation, I assume, this light.
Transcendent hole. Small rock poked from drystone
with a fingertip, for looking through
to the wide field, the I restored its sight.
Last week enamelled passengers were ranged
dangerously along the platform edge
a terrible whining sound coming from them,
scraping at each other whitely with their heads –
a crowd like that, and one so closely stood,
will curdle in the mouth’s inadequate space,
drop bacterial signals through the blood
and send the hapless heart to rot and race
so I cut an Acme circle with a wide-toothed saw
and the wide-eyed sky fell in through the trapdoor.
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Vitrine of Tektites and Fulgurites
Museo Geominero del Instituto Geológico y Minero de España
capital in a silver circlet sits
on the plateau of its throne
flashing handful of dropped cutlery
the cymbal shock
september lightning
arrows sparking flint
sanction the limits
bound the umber meseta
from the city whose plazas
bloom sudden as desert flowers
seen from the sun’s
high mourning window
vista of sloped sienna tile
azoteas orange as pine resin
in ranges all the way
to the circling sierra into which
womb burdened with a burning
stone I climbed
thirsting mountains hung
with verdigris & bellringing
and then later, fearstruck
& fevered
dreamt I found a fulgurite
hollow root of blackened glass
standing in the desert
sky’s raw data
riven with inclusions
a bloom in amber
or electrum, a prophecy coded
& catalogued in sand
Martha Sprackland is a writer and editor from Merseyside, now living between London and Madrid. She was co-founder and poetry editor of Cake magazine, and is one of the founding editors of multilingual arts magazine La Errante. She is the editor of independent press Offord Road Books.
“Vitrine of Tektites and Fulgurites” is from Citadel (Pavilion Poetry, 2020). Published with permission of author and publisher.