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Double

I could write a poem
Or two
If I would write a poem
It’s two
Always double
Always double
A poem is always ‘to’
Two eyes, two hands, two feet
Even a child knows
The heart is two/to
If I am with you
We are double
In each other and so
Double and double
Is multiple
Of two
When alone
I am poem
I am one but not to my own self
Carrying another as I go
I am
Most double when not two-gether
And yet if in single
I am always self and other
Without you, in being half,
I am whole.
Doubling over in
yearning
I am half me and
I am half you


‘street theatre’

yes you can act
you do already woman- you think you’re veiled
or hiding behind that plastic bag full of potatoes
you may be adept at stepping out of a tin full of hands
crashing madly across the bus stands
your life may be dripping away like soap suds
from a starched body into the everyday
you may have figured what to say
when the gynaecologist asks ‘married or unmarried?’
striding, galloping or crawling
performing, performing
the streets of this city are the surfaces of a broken stage
the lack of (street) lighting only
augments the drama
your performance is applauded loudly
by those that cling to washed linen
theatre is just a dirty word at home
and yet you stomp around in this speckled space
with a thousand darkened eyes measuring your pace
rehearsed moves – costumes
ripping at the seams –
the script’s been going around for a while
but no one knows how the play ends
Ophelia’s truth disguised in madness
whose weight you bear
yes you can end it, you already have –
each time you forget to act
and an Ophelia speaks a Hamlet’s part