Upturn a glass, press rim to the cloth:
its circle bleeds on cotton.  Blot it,

watch it expand, soak itself up.
That's easy - no problem.

Wait for buds to break open, string twine
round their necks, up-end;

hang them in rows and dry out their bones.
That's beautiful - no problem.

Swap fingers for secateurs. Prune yourself
from bark to sap, cut back what sticks out,

trim stem to a silhouette. Sleek.
That's easy - no problem.

Bare your body to the stars – they’ll cling
reeking of ash and blue winter.  Pluck

at their crusts, spin them out of orbit.
That's beautiful - no problem.

Once I drank vodka from a glass made of ice.
Red, like fire, it burned as I swallowed.

Ice holds its alcohol.  No problem - that's easy.

Abegail Morley

If you have any comments on this poem, Abegail Morley would be pleased to hear them.