Amy De'Ath

But This is Your Quota

But This is Your Quota

It’s tricky waking up to a flock of starlings or swarm
of wasps outside the window when the period calls for something
a little more anodyne.
Surely unfair to stand in the shower having to plan the skyways
or underground canals to suit the future’s hair colour
when it’s raining anyway.
Press releases flutter down and they all insist the same thing:
if you have the wherewithal to crouch and forage
we’ll overlook your previous intent.
Changing tack, you think you may be able to gas them out
with fluctuations in the tone of your speech
pedagogic craters in your speech.
Then any scenario you play out is declared a disinvestment,
a miserly hymn sung according to the codes
installed in your bowels.
Bear it exacerbate it, hail & spare your face to skyscape,
your tubes and funnels of blood open up bare to the wind
& carry up the scrub and the clay.
Blow down exasperated, palms spread like Venus wide to wild
flocks, your head spins off your shoulders, down a garish green hill

into your parents’ bosom.
Audaciously you tell them you once lived in a wooden shack once
wet your knickers returning to the fire once kissed the whole
courtroom in glee always tried it and spat it out.

But hard to live and know the earnest love-lily of ‘avant-garde’ was
done with before you got to be born, and besides you got
to be born overseas.
And what got you to the comfort of white-lit emporiums smelling
of bread and flocking of babies when all you
desired was steaming tap water?
Hanging limp, you lip-read to find they already knew of your
scintillating, so there’s nothing you would like more now
than to press your body on a cold fridge.
(Just in Air)
                     Of all the things that I have done, it
Still moves in the shallows, barely submarine
but away from the gusts that make shoals, make crumble
around.  Not smug not nothing though.
In earth we find inertia; so what if you and I sprawl usually on the
back of someone else’s back: the whole courtroom kissed you
back.  I thought you knew what ‘moonlit’ I was talking

about my tremor but you didn’t, and on a, a cooler day like this
Our consonants, soft-pedaled.

              you are just like me- heart, apple: chest,
a woody train; there’s no way to talk about
human beings—but wonderful, to count them like sheep
and have them never run out—my tremor my stuffed
white rabbit droop in the corner of my room,
used to droop-look at me, cavernously.  Hang limpet. 

           Birds and trees outside so obviously true, so often
           repeated, trite or wingless. I’m trying to cough
up a new excuse while you run the way you crave the frame,
the orderliness of the day nicely, but the catcher of your eye
calls persistent beats to your temples cause to stumble off-balance
onto the platform not knowing any station.
If all this time your boots were clogged in language not belonging
to you, and your response is only to notice the rain-tap on the

skylight, then who is that.
Responsibly contoured, you roll out of a magician’s hat
onto a bed of wild orchids, yes you are like
a bold white bunny.
But there isn’t time to give or take an impression, to make
amends or explain your fear or explain that wild
orchids also go by ‘glass slippers’.
(Among Pebble)
                          I once was  /  but now-
I see original placating oyster shells, they’re part of your oeuvre,
they wash up in rockpools close by you your face is read by cold
gales your face is brazen / brazen.  Meanwhile I am in the kitchen
making quiche or waiting for something.  Maybe predictably, for
the sofa to be delivered.

(At Sea)
My, I am luckily bulwarked.  I am wracked and this moment is a
She.  It reverberates left-handedly and leniently.  Our heads are
lolling, there’s water lapping gently at our feet.  Would you dislike
to maintain a more erudite connection to society at large? 

Wrack.  Wrecked.  Wrack and Wreck again and Accept cash and
Carry me and Market Day and Every day and Every woe and
worry dear to me-

It was the lone fizzy cola bottle left gelatinously in the box told me
I could make it as a secular Jew – after all I’m a girl and you’re a
goose and you’re a salvaged item from a tip, a compulsively fraying
ribbon insatiably shaking your tails (for our purposes) any item. 
Still, on the street many suspect darknesses and thuggish bodies at
large, but for you, the sides of the ship extending above deck-level.

Did the day pass by?  Could we have hurled ourselves around its
legs and swept it to the ground, by the legs?

Nullifying to wait in a shadow wondering when stretching
distances will become a figure when your loved
ones will dissipate evicted.
The boys’ constant melomania begins to itch, it doesn’t allow
you to walk about the room with risen fists
asserting your denizenship your denizity.
While they stomp through the evening kitchen making noise the
planets above are banding round them, sly orbits

to ascertain make verdict.
In underground canals and skyways at specified times a tube or
funnel of blood will forget to blow down to oscillate between

you and your loved.