“…a poem is a way of happening, a mouth.” (W.H.Auden)
Oh God, she loved corners.
Sundays saw her iron out sins from our week.
Preparing them to rest, we stood sheet apart –
huge triangles of cloth squared like envelopes.
Take a blue thing, fold it so it cannot know.
Even in the dark, it wraps itself around those it loves.
Now – safe, and set in pale stone of this moon,
head in crook of arm, you are corner to my cloth.
Amy Wyatt is a poet, artist and lecturer from Bangor, Northern Ireland. Her debut poetry pamphlet, A Language I Understand, is published by Indigo Dreams https://amylouisewyatt.com/. Amy is the founding editor of The Bangor Literary Journal.