Poetry by E.A. Moody

                    ​Michael CC



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Things I don’t know the answer to when lying in our attic bed aged 41

I don’t know the type of bird that fills the air up with its
bag of feathered song opened wide. I don’t quite know 
how it suspends itself, plume and wing mid-air, a parcel 
in stasis for a moment, a gift for us each dawn. And I can’t
think exactly where I bought you the dusty snow globe from, 
that sits on a shelf now, eternal winter in its glass, I only remember
the heavy weight of it in my palm, the lightness of its circling snow, 
blizzards of emotion. I don’t know how many words are held in the 
books we’ve bought, decades of sentences, their punctuation and 
spaces, their typography all stacked up here; each comma, each 
exclamation mark bearing witness to us, the stories we have written 
and read to each other, prose and verse. Volumes look on as we lay
 on this bed, our own sentences written, the punctuation of our love.
And I don’t know where your freckles go when the moonlight turns 
your sleeping profile silver-white, the soft blurred edges of your skin, 
illuminated glow at midnight as I watch on quietly at this blue show,
an audience of one. But there is one thing I do know, and know and
know and keep on knowing. In this attic oasis of ours, where strange
flowers grow and blossom from cacti leaf, where there is always heat
and thirst. Many things I do not know but one thing I always will.



E. A. Moody is a mother, paddle boarder, runner and fan of vintage T-shirts from South Wales. She is published in Apex, Black Bough, Green Ink and has work forthcoming in Seventh Quarry. Twitter: eamoody1
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