Quietus by Mary Gilonne

in Poetry

Mary Gilonne is a translator, living in France for many years but originally from Devon. She has won the Wenlock Prize, been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and commended in several prize competitions. Her work can be found in magazines The Curlew, Prole, Obsessed with Pipework, The Pickled Body among many others , also in anthologies – Mildly Erotic Verse, Samhain , etc.,  and online. Her pamphlet ‘Incidentals’ is published by  4Word Press.  





I hear the fish fly.
My face is a bowl, a broken vessel
full of fleeting words swallowed
as I dive. See how I leave here,
watching pale gardens ripple in my
wake. Hands, bound birds, escape.


I hear the fish fly.
My hidden breasts, white water-lilies,
float, your lost eyes searching pleated
sheets, tabled peonies, are caught. I sea-drift
ward walls, blue. See these feet swim the sky,
their porcelain, that final flame of rising sun.


I hear the fish fly.
Look how light unspools my skin,
how it’s veined by a windowed gold.
Kin, kintsugi. I’m moon-ferried, blood
like setting water, we piece life together
with remembering, forgetting.