Yes, I am the seabirds
washed inside-out, the stained-glass sea,
yawning roofless walls.
Yes, your calls ring straight to voicemails,
you can barely hear my recording
yapping over the waves.
Yes, the proofer has vanished, his
pen unable to underline typos
yet my skin is littered with deaths.
Yes, I timed out and rose in multiples,
each footstep is now visible on the
yellowing floors. I am she, and hers.
Yes, these volumes are unreadable now; it has
always been this way, only the
young know my tune, and it swallows their hearts.
Yes, I lost my last face in the storm, yours
I had eaten after midnight, laughing as
you yelled that the rain was tied in knots.
Yes, I am always laughing, my hands
are falling. I found a bronze bell
yesterday stuck to my back, it gongs.
Yes, I am contaminations,
and you grok this world until
your circuits merge with our paths.
Yes, the couple came to stand next to me, it dictates
that history is an out of sync ‘we’.
You wrap it in silk. Present it as a series of gifts.
Yes! Yes! Hear me! The sea boils
purple, steams that we are lies but
Yes! I, she, we, he, they, it can hiss.
(from Astéronymes. Listen to Claire reading ‘Ys, Ys’on SoundCloud)
Claire Trévien is the author of The Shipwrecked House (Penned in the Margins, 2013) and Astéronymes (Penned in the Margins, 2016). She founded Sabotage Reviews and runs its annual Saboteur Awards. @CTrevien