Poetry: ‘Baby’ & ‘Dreaming Alone’

Published on November 26, 2014


An Indian man once told me
my eyes were like gigantic spotlights,
like women’s from the South.
I’m always cold,
especially my feet.
I put hair masks on;
it’s dry like bark
breaking from a tree.
Your hair is wispy
and sparingly placed.
Your eyes, a dense forest
of newborn trees.
I arrive home, your
skin is always hot.
You wait for me, you watch.
You comb me
ever so softly,
like I am a pet.
You smile with small teeth,
your dimples pool
into ponds of hope.
Baby, cradle me
when I am worn and tired.
We can lie on fresh linen.
I’ll bite the corner of my lips,
I’m nervous. You’ll sleep.
Closing the door behind you
Can I come in?
I ask permission to enter.
A hand reaches
out for mine, as smooth
as the sun. It reaches
from across its sky
and finds a home in mine.




Dreaming Alone
After ‘The Dream The Bed’ by Frida Kahlo, 1940

He wasn’t always there for me. To be sincere, he is a very equivocal person. Almost, not quite, pouring sun. Blindfolded we play Marco Polo. Connecting by collision. I pull a little heart from under my sleeve. Announce myself, you’ve forgotten. Called me by my mother’s name. Weather is hard to remember. I dissolve with you, your bones, twisted aches from the garden. Awake with me each night. Thorns poke my neck. Pattering rain on tin. You forget.

India Poulton is the poetry intern at Island Magazine. Her non-fiction work has appeared recently in The Lifted Brow and Yen Magazine. Her writing is an attempt at being wilfully honest, punchy, and funny, while showing evidence that deeper psychological/social considerations are in the subject of her work.

Chris Somerville is the author of the short story collection We Are Not The Same Anymore. He is currently drawing the former mayors of Huntington Beach California.