Susan Darlington's work regularly explores the female experience through nature-based symbolism and stories of transformation. It has been published in Dream Catcher, Algebra Of Owls, Runcible Spoon, Dreich, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. She has three books available: 'Never Wear White' (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), 'Traumatropic Heart' (Selcouth Station, 2021), and ‘Under The Devil’s Moon’ (Penniless Press Publications, 2015). She performs readings in and around West Yorkshire, UK. She's also an arts journalist and has contributed to Yorkshire Evening Post, Metro, Morning Star, Loud And Quiet, Spectrum Culture, and R2 (formerly Rock ‘n’ Reel) over the last two decades.
THE DOLLS’ HOUSE It was anger that made the door shrink until she could barely fit through it anymore: her hand grazing the white frame livid red and her shoulders snapping it from its hinges. It was anger that made the seams of her dress strain across her hips and the bud of her breasts, hitching the hem above flushed legs that kicked against the vermillion walls she’d overgrown. It was anger that made her smash a china cup through the rain grimed window that confined the stagnant air and towards which her waxy neck craned, growing long as it twisted to the light. And it was anger that gave her the voice to say no more; that made the dolls’ house crash down around her. And as she rose from the debris it was the first time she could truly breathe. POMEGRANATE Pomegranate seeds are sown down the centre of the road, equidistant flashes of red that sparkle like gemstones in the car’s chill headlights. They impassively mark the distance that’s passed between here— another seed comes into view— and the there of your kitchen, where we sat on stark wood chairs with our knees barely touching, our hands wrapped around slowly cooling tea served in white cups; their glaze delicately mapped with cracks. IT’S SAID… that every time an acorn falls, it’s someone departing their earthbound body; that when its shell cracks open, it’s the soul’s heart breaking for those it left behind; and that when its roots reach out they’re searching for friends who are already on the other side. I look at the acorns scattered under the oak tree and wonder which one is you.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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