Susan Richardson

Self-Contained

I like
bags,
baskets,
boxes,
things that contain things
more than the things they contain.

I'm partial to
pots, pans,
cupboards, cups
and dustbins,
potty about lockers,
trolleys and trunks.
Fridges are particularly thrilling
and the mere whiff of an oven
gives me goosebumps.

Speaking as a fan of tupperware,
tepees,
tea chests
and tents,
I can well recommend
spending time with vacant containers.

Remember -
a drawer is more
than an unselfish storage space
for knives, forks,
knickers,
scissors and paper.

And a suitcase,
like shellfish,
is at its bivalvular best
when empty
and open.

Tropical Night

Twelve a.m. - I lie in bed.
My limbs are tinder.
If I move, my thighs will rub and start a fire.

By two, I'm an over-ripe fruit -
juice leaks from each crease of me.

Three.
Heat rounds up the sheep I count.
They dehydrate and die.

Five.
I kick off the thin sheet of sleep
to find the crater of my navel steaming.

At last - seven.
Relief, however, melts with night
in day's sweltering oven.

The Winged Chariot

Four hours to kill until you came.

I strangled the first -
not without regret -
but in retrospect,
it was for the best.

The second I stabbed -
in self-defence, you understand -
the wait had nearly killed me.

I ate the third alive -
it was the perfect crime.
Sixty minutes swallowed
in less than five.

The fourth I shot - so what?
It's not as if it had long to live
anyway.

You came,
rushed and flustered -
no chance to bathe or eat or change....

I prayed that Time won't tell.