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"I ask half a bivalve shell some questions but end up answering the questions myself" by Jane Burn



Do you crave your other half?


Yes, when the storms come and the animals have spread themselves

far from the croft, out across the dark hills. They seem uncountable,

unfindable, gone from my care. I wish that he was still here, sometimes,

if only to help me catch them in. Yes, when I am wakeful,

and the bedroom bloats with shadows. Yes, when the night

is bleak as a crypt, full of ghouls.


How did it feel when that hole was eroded through your shell?


It began as no more than a pinprick. A thing I did not notice.

It grew bigger. I began to imagine my thoughts as creatures, aching to escape.

Each dream became a radula, grinding its way out.

There has always been pain in my head.

One day, I felt my mind passing through the back of my skull

like a calf slipping from its mother’s womb.


Did you ever worry that you might drown?


The Sunday parlour has curtains, swirled the colour of sea. Blue-grey drapes

to close against the blue-grey dusk. After his funeral, folk came to gorge

the tiny sandwiches I had made. They touched my things,

said how they were sorry for my loss. I didn’t lose him. I knew exactly

where he was. The last time he touched me has faded from my skin.

Their prattle rose like a flood. It closed above my head.


Was it easy for you to find love?


I used to watch him as I walked back over the fields. His whistle would carry

like a kite’s shriek upon the sky. The sun made him a false saint,

lit him from behind with light. The hearth-flames made him a vision of hell.

I would think, this is not my house. When did I marry?

Who knitted him that scarf? Who chose that wool?

Who dropped that stitch? I cannot remember casting it on.


Do you know that you are unhinged?


I remember a knowledge of growth. A swallowed secret. I used

to stand at the window with hands across my stomach and a smile

upon my face. There was something inside me, once. I saw myself

in the bubbled glass door – how I laughed at the lady with untidy hair.

Her fistful of flowers seemed a sad thing. If unhinged be

the clasping of foxgloves, then yes, I know this word well. 




Jane Burn is an award-winning poet and hybrid writer and working-class person with autism / person with a disability. Her poems are widely published. Her current collection, Be Feared, is available from Nine Arches. The Apothecary of Flight is due in 2024, also from Nine Arches. She lives off-grid in a Northumberland cottage. Jane is the Michael Marks Awards Environmental Poet of the Year 2023/24, with her winning pamphlet A Thousand Miles from the Sea.

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