Poetry: "tranmission & delivery" + "little lamb"

transmission & delivery

blue light is a blue tit chirping // letting other sunrise game know // it’s still alive // the

keyboard // a manifesto of nightcaps & queer discourses

you wear pigeon colours fresh // from basement clouds of reddened skies // i see a

future genealogy // in slumber eyes if i’m not mistaken // for juno & lost like glue

pritt stick always hurts // i try buying scissors but // need id for that so // a quilt

becomes sufficient in the daytime // & blue gaslights grey i hear dustbins outside //

plucking ancestral nipple hairs // everyone looks different now

if you seized my cheeks to sleep on // i promise it wouldn't work // if the blue tit tells

me // to unravel it i am untrustworthy // when the aurora claims its horizon

my hot tap has been running // for hours now i hope blue tits // don't drown when you

wash up // takes a long time to need a dishwasher // this isn't blue ball season

anymore

little lamb

i play cry often / coming home on wednesday’s / after french picking blackberries /

electric kiss of her cheek like a trampoline sting / i am young with chocolate cake /

grated carrots in a colander in the sink / if she is a bird / she is a golden starling / her

neck pearls break down / into honey roasted ham sandwiches / i know i’ll be nourished

forever & warm / in her velvet scarfs two pink one gold / everyone says she is stylish

/ & she is

i play mary had a little lamb / for her on a tin whistle too young / to know what’s fitting

on sofas / stuffed with gossip i stand top of the staircase / buzzing the fire alarm /

disciplined for breaking rules of flock / her garden backs onto city allotments / we all

have the same family gardener / pointlessly pulling out weeds in yellow gloves & i’m

no pastoral poet / so i don’t know what it means / growth & ground together

i play an o’carolan piece on the altar / blind as her body departs i cry / in the shower

only my dad knows / there’s a chicken shop & road names / they keep saying there’s

nobody left / if it were a song / my sister sings / it would be christy moore missing you

/ if i was to look in a thesaurus for synonyms / of dementia i would / cry often

Niamh Jerrie Haran is a lesbian poet based in London. She is part of the 2019/20 Roundhouse Poetry Collective and is an English Undergraduate at King's College London. She is published in ang(st) zine. Twitter: @niamhjerrie Instagram: @niamh.haran