Three Poems by Kirsty Niven

by Kirsty Niven

Looking Glass

Whatever he sees, he boomerangs back faithfully,

reflecting every expression with diamond clarity.

A glimmering silver wall the size of Berlin’s.

I tap at the taxidermy’s glass as if it contained

a live beast that I might awaken and animate.

He is an exhibition that cannot be touched.

I convinced myself that he was secretly a sarcophagus,

humanity bound deep inside under secure layers.

I thought there was more than a mirrored Colossus.

I still spew verbose vomit at his transparency,

words bounce against the astronaut’s bubble head.

A man shaped decanter with no liquid inside.

Resolution

You tossed a t-shirt over to the bed.

You smiled as you stood, and watched;

blue irises deepening with each layer

stripped tentatively away –

the live show of every postcard shot combined.

Your shirt drops over me like a curtain.

The tobacco scent in the air, ready to be lit;

my hyper heart clattering against ribs,

a drum roll of its anticipation, as you undress.

The space between us draws to a close.

Storm in a Teacup

A black brewing sea within:

simmering and thunderous.

The crack crawled down the side,

slitting my veneer –

hairline fracture in my fragile bone.

A bead of perspiration peeks through,

my contents ready to overflow.