by RME Thornhill
Not silver not gold
Useless things with histories dipped in blood
Give me a ring made from wood
Stolen from oak or willow or ash
So fresh, the sap still dripping
Old and rich with silent wisdom
I want tentacle roots to sink through my skin
To branch out within
Find me a ring made from bone
A vertebra, polished and clean
An ivory O like a mouth in a scream
Or a finger, curled and beckoning
A white brittle stone. Your bone
Rattling next to my own
Make me a ring from your laugh
Delicate tinkling on my hand
Like a thousand bells in a row
Shaking with mirth, making night
Look like day. When I’m lost I want it to show me the way
Bake me a ring made from your words
Knead and ply your yeses, your nos
Sprinkle in your wonderful lies then
Warm the hubbub and babble through
Leave out what you say to the rest. I want what’s
Whispered under your breath
Of wood or bone or laughter or words
Dirty metals not allowed
Make me proud
–
RME Thornhill is a performance poet and author from Bristol.
The Pygmy Giant 