Two Poems by Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe



THE NIGHT THE MOON TURNED BLUE


The night the moon turned blue

we stood on the ridge.

Watching the frost creep

and the world’s colours shift.


Our hearts beating out jive music

against our ribs,

the backbeat - the snowflakes

drumming our ears;

beating them red,

leaving them burning.


We ran that night,

the tarmac sparkling.

Ran,

feet crunching fresh snow –

chased, it seemed,

by our own ghost stories.

We saw snowflakes unmask the world

picking out shapes in the landscape usually unseen.


Snow-covered we ran,

never getting as far as home

something kept dragging us back

to that place.

The tree on the ridge –

where the moon turned blue.




SQUASHED


There is a squashed skeleton at the bottom of the tower. I know I shouldn't look at it. I know it will give me nightmares, and yet, I cannot keep my eyes away. Cannot stop staring, taking in the mangled patella, the double hitch backward curve of the left forearm, the splayed fingers, scattered outwards. Knuckles and loose teeth knocked clean from the jawbone, strewn on the floor.


I know I shouldn't look at it, I know it will give me nightmares, and yet, I rewind and pause, rewind and pause, rewind, pause, and linger in the memory.





Zoë is a Poet and Mum from Dukinfield. She has an MA in Poetry from Bath Spa University.

Her work has appeared in Magma, Atrium, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Riggwelter, Picaroon, Algebra of Owls and The Black Light Engine Room amongst others.

Twitter: @ZSHowarthLowe

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