The first line, tapped out days ago

The woman is perfected

My purpose feels dire, not as slick and clack
and mint-green as she first described
through the near-perfect teeth and happy breath of her 27th birthday

Beside me, the finished poem
her fingers trace on the page. I sense the subatomic tick
in the lefthand crease of her mouth as her finger encounters the flawed
indentation of my g. Nine times I absorbed the depression of her right index
in the bowl of that key. Ten if you include the Uppercase in Greek

The illusion of a Greek necessity

I´ll not know its meaning, that line, not as I know
of the empty bottle beside her. The sweep of her arm across her face, rough
and guilty. The fervour of victory slash defeat slick on her brow
even as her arms hang loose cupping my sides as if
I steadied the tilt of her world

These poems, they are for her and I
She, laying bare what she cannot see till I emboss the page. Her translator
The Machinery of her soul manifest. In the other room, her children penned in
chirp in happy immersion
My platen is fed the reverse of a secondhand page. On the underside
pressed out in Epoca typeface. I recognise the structure
and paragraphs. Of course! The Bell Jar!
I accept the gift and her heaviness.

She hovers and sways, turns away distracted
by the squeals and jabbering of tots at play. She frowns
at the acoustics. Oh the impotence of that closed door

Today does not bear the fruit her readers seek. Instead
we sit in taut silence. Reside in words un-manifest till
she strikes my keys at once, fortissimo.  A grande finale
of jammed type-bars

Today she will not add discreet layers atop the sugar, cooking oil, baby mush
and sweat that coat my keys. Or slop coffee against my side. Always the left

Today will bear the poetry they will never see because they were not here to witness
the tortuous, manic, euphorically powerless non-fruiting of


They will just see the page is blank. But I
her typewriter, her comrade in arms, know the keen portent of

Debra is a person who expresses best through the creative sphere and is self-taught (as in self-directed research and experimentation) in sculpting, creative writing, painting, photography and crafts. She aligns herself with the punk philosophy of ‘do it yourself’ and has one foot in the past and one seeking somewhere beyond the future.


Her poetry, short stories and flash/hybrid fiction have appeared in print and digital format over the past 20+ years and latterly is listed on the ISFDB (Internet Speculative Fiction Database).


As an antidote to human-centred life, she works with the plant kingdom in a ramshackle mountain-garden space, exploring medicinal and permaculture systems of garden custodianship, with a wonky-legged husband and two furry beasts.