Two poems

1.
Flicking my hips underwater,
I make a tail of my legs.

To move through matter
head first 
fingers kissing —

I am the cursive language 
of the under blue

not looking for awkward answers,
like when I am upright

just the rolling writing 
of this realm 

No age, either; it always feels
the same, 
every liquid letter. 

2. 
The stormcloud unleashes 
a ghost tongue 
out of its mouth;
apparition indigo, peach —

the houses underneath on the hill
are neon answers to starshine

a lone, dried leaf, 
leeched of colour
sails past the arc width 
and settles on the grass with a scratch —

'endings' I think.
But the rainbow licks at it too
pouring
holy violet
light continuous.

C. LJ Ireton 2025