Kasia Truscott

Edition February 2020

Self-Portrait V Bloom - by Kasia Truscott (Photo by Steve Johnson).jpgPhoto credit: Steve Johnson

Self-Portrait V: Bloom

By Kasia Truscott

When the weather lifts to the aria
of that warmer note, the flowers come;
chaos in perfectly choreographed order.

They come as children do,
as a smile that reaches the eyes.
They come as soldiers of the patient kind,
as those that choose to hold on against
that which will pass of its own accord.

And if this feeling is a cage then let me
dwell within it, for it is the same as
the warm winds and the screaming skies;
a belonging that reaches the inside
to cradle my heart after so very long.

I watch them bloom from the ashes of my skin,
the white bells, pure in any dark night,
shining at the rising of the sun, whilst
the light floods the plains of an art that is
unrivalled by any work of man.

Edition XXXVI

The Healing - by Kasia Truscott (Photo by Cody Davis)Photo credit: Cody Davis

The Healing

By Kasia Truscott

i. January

Your words sing like fat pigeons sitting on telephone wires,
crooking the cables like the creases around my mouth.
Candles flicker on the little brown bodies that sit
naked and embarrassed on my cheeks.

Happy birthday…

to you…

There is only one thing I wish for.


ii. February

I haven’t yet taught my tongue to trace
the sticky shape of the question mark that lingers
in the back of my mouth like the stench
of rotting teeth.

Now every time I swallow,

there’s a lump in my throat.


iii. March

The ice melts and it gets colder.
This year it doesn’t snow.
My mother brings me a blanket
and a candle before she cries
herself to sleep.


iv. April

I remembered that stars only shine
because they’re dying.

I think I must be the galaxy.


v. May

I decided that I would paint my name
in cumulus colours across a sky that would bleed
at my fingertips, and then remembered that
I was just visiting.


vi. June

June taught me that if you undress
the summer months you get a euphemism
for depression instead of a metaphor for happiness.


vii. July

I am still trying to tell myself
that growing isn’t such a bad thing.


viii. August

The sky split open and kissed
my ink-spattered bruises,
my scuffed knees, my scraped elbows.
It was slow, floating in gentle waves,
little wet lifeboats in a dry sea.

The message was:


ix. September

I looked in the mirror
and recognised myself.
My eyes swam in colours
that I had never seen before.


x. October

The world really does
look bigger from up here.

I can’t explain how I feel,
but maybe I don’t have to.


xi. November

I smiled.
It was an old,
crumpled copy.
But I smiled.


xii. December

The rain came to visit for a final time,
soft and sweet beneath a glowing streetlamp.

The water, the light; a golden flower,
an echo of life bursting into the night.

Return to the top