A Poem by Sarah Hesketh

Alice Neel, Self-Portrait (1980)

here’s a hall of mirrors
or a bullfight maybe my
gaze pulled up to meet
yours meeting yourself
what would it be
to push a finger and then
a tongue into the unfinished
mustard of that floor to palm
the bovine jut of your shoulder?
how many times must I
blink to erase your silhouette
electric blue signature
like a neon sign fizzing still
hustling in the late, light
nights of summer small
firework nailed to an alley door
this is no surrender
no picture of insanity
the white rag in your hand
is a deception barely practised
the paintbrush is thrust
in tempo as a baton
still conducting us all
go on then tell me I’m wrong
as you point your blown ankle
into a block of green future and
suddenly I think I understand
why they called it a Harlem stride

Sarah Hesketh is a writer and editor. She has published two full collections of work, both with Penned in the Margins press. She is also the editor of Anthology of Age (The Emma Press). She currently works as Managing Editor for Modern Poetry in Translation. www.sarahhesketh.com