Cadaverine Magazine

We’re in beating sun, sticky and soaked,
and she’s got her legs out: strong calves,
a patch by the ankle where the razor’s missed.

Jenny Danes

Jenny Danes

Jenny Danes grew up in Essex and now lives in Newcastle where she studies English Literature and German. In 2013 she was highly commended in the Bridport Prize for poetry, and she has since been published in magazines such as The Missing Slate, The Cadaverine and Ink Sweat & Tears. She is currently one of the literature editors for Alliterati magazine, and is a member of the Writing Squad.

Information

This article was published by Rachel Piercey on 15 Apr 2015, and is filed under Poetry.

Two poems by Jenny Danes

 
An Unlikely Love Poem
 
We’re in beating sun, sticky and soaked,
and she’s got her legs out: strong calves,
a patch by the ankle where the razor’s missed.
 
She’s talking fast, flitting through topics
like finger-dipping-pies, sharp mind firing
over my head. My head’s turned
 
to listen, and I feel better to notice
she’s sweating too, that sheen
beneath her sunglasses. There’s something
 
in her profile that blazes, these confident
features; straight sure-of-itself nose, mouth,
a stare to slice you with. I picture her
 
with a man, all stubble and large hands,
he leans into my vision, blocks her
from me, claims her with his mouth.
 
 
 
Mother
 
You lie small in your bed,
         door open from the long practice
                  of children calling in the night.
 
I’m feeling young, so I wade
         through the darkness, ask
                  for a cutch. You pull your arm out
 
and offer it; I kneel, lean
         in to hug the only part I can reach.
                  My face buries in
 
above your collarbone. I close
         my eyes against the dark,
                  try not to think. I try not to breathe
 
out straight onto your skin, knowing
         the horrible hot wetness of it.
                  I try to smell you: not sweat,
 
not perfume, not the duvet’s
         washing powder, not even home,
                  but something inherent, primal,
 
something of myself, a body,
         the same flesh –
                  the way all children find a pillow
 
in their mothers’ upper arms,
         how they burrow, heads butting
                  like a cat marking its scent,
 
or recognising its own:
         this same ilk, this strange,
                  deep comfort.
 
 
 
 
 

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