Jennifer Ratcliffe's poems

She sweeps in ligament ballet
tiptoeing the hot concrete gauge in false economy,
soul purpose to puppet against the grain,
as I sleep - she writhes in pain
trying to tether the wendy stitch.

The time figures of meloncholy garment,
worn without want,
caged for dark reflections pace,
forced to follow without trace.
They who ripple the steering puppeteer
tattooed in his flesh buried truths,
scurry the working hours carved by broken men,
to disappear into dreams and faces of their own,
and I am only as I dictate
but you are only as I am-
a shadows life.

I couldnt be in a place
Where my skin signals advantage
Taken
I couldnt be in a place
Where my sex signals advantage
Taken
I couldnt be in a place
Where my hair signals advantage
Taken
I couldnt be in a place
Where my accent signals advantage
Taken
I couldnt be in a place
Where i exist
As i am taken
And returned
With no signs of advantage
Taken
Just my thoughts
My beliefs
My soul
Your body.

I'll wrap some newspapers round my calfs
And i'll learn to love dogs.

I tried to describe you,
but I ended up describing them all. Sideways on, face glances: my cheek's then the ceiling’s, reiterating the stars of your tongue.

Eye’s, lips- somehow all those colours and shapes can sound exactly the same. Individuality lies only in my memory, the inn keeper to your reflection. You couldn’t be more wrong, you couldn’t be more dealt with, yet it’s your’s I think of when I read this poem
that has no meaning to me at all.