Violet Echoes

Tonight, I decide, is the night I will succeed.

I’ll walk across the stiff peaks,

kneel in the sand,

and tell her how it ends.

The gulls scream that I’m coming,

but she doesn’t listen, or understand.

She squints against the sky,

shoos them away,

thinking they’re trying to steal her chips.

The sun blazes, roars in my ears,

bores into my thoughts –

like every time before.

She pulls a pudgy hand up as a visor,

scowls at me, and my funny clothes

for a second, then folds

to inspect her sandcastle better.

Bent like a tree frog, toes spread

and anchored firmly to the earth

she starts smoothing down the walls

and asks who I am.

I tell her I’m from the future and she laughs,

eyes shining with images of tin foil jeans

and sky skimming cars.

Where’s your dad?

She gestures to a tall man at the shore,

distant and black against the horizon.

His hands are full with melting ice cream,

and a little boy’s hand.

If she’s six, he’s three,

and their dad’s about to leave.

I wipe at my flaking forehead, grimace at my palms.

My heart burns in my throat.

I haven’t got long.

Her mum sups at a can of pop,

eyes smooth behind iridescent sunglasses

reflecting iridescent sea.

They’re all so happy, I think.

Condensation slides down the can.

I salivate. I ache.

I can’t bring myself to ruin this humble moment

that stretches before me.

So I look down at the sand

as my toes and this vital memory curl

back on themselves.

I regenerate, thicken, solidify above.

On my return I find the crowd entranced by the screen, oblivious

to the timer counting down in the corner as I watch

myself watching myself crumble into ash again.

Violet Dahl

At school assembly the boys were told to leave

and we were shown pictures

of tubes and eggs,

that were round, not egg-shaped.

They showed us flat shiny squares

and tiny tubes that looked like sweets

and the nurse lady told us that when her first moon came

she thought she was dying.

I didn’t want to die.

But that was a long time ago, she said

and now girls get told about things

so that was OK.

Then the talking was over.

I thought about telling her I was scared,

even though girls now get told about things.

I saw Lindsay hang behind

she had boobs already

and we teased her

when secretly we wanted them too.

When I woke years later to the smell of rust

my legs stuck together

and the stain on my sheet

I thought, they never tell you that, do they-

red blood darkens to brown.

Violet Dahl

In the afterlife phones are not mobile-

and red booths are used to tell secrets

to loved ones. Most whispers allude to God’s

appearance. Some say he is a microbe,

unable to comprehend His children;

and others say he’s so impossibly

colossal that his days are like our years.

His house is vacant; with graffiti scrawled

phrases like Monetary-gone-mad-system.

Eerie runes are dug into His gate. They

explain His long absence- regrettably,

however, they are indecipherable.

One day, translator’s eyes will roll at: I’m off,

the kids have eaten me out of house and home!

Violet Dahl

The word babe refers to;

·         A small, usually new-born, infant.

·         The name of the piglet that wants to be a sheepdog from the 1995 film of the same title.

The word babe is not a term of endearment.

And for that matter, neither is honey.

The word honey refers to;

·         A sweet, sticky, yellowish-brown fluid created by bees from the nectar collected from flowers.

The word honey is not a term of endearment.

And for that matter, neither is its weaker derivative, sweetie.

Humans have a surprisingly high sodium content. If anything, an accurate term of endearment is salty.

E.g. “Hey salty, pass me the sugar.”

Violet Dahl

It doesn’t

matter

to me

if

this is

the end;

the end

where squid

develop lungs

and learn

how to

fly,

an end

where

what

it means

to see

is to

transcend-

because

in

the end

sleep is

the only

friend

I need

to make

peace with.

Violet Dahl