On the Mile End Road you can connect nothing
with nothing, or too much; under the skin
the blood wanders, at your knees and elbows you
are blue. I cannot tell you to bring yourself in,
ringing in Father’s Day with the slow pulse
of the dead, under the skin, under the skin,
and the lost rivers beneath the cars beating
and beating on, the way the bells are marking
time, a summoning: under the skin you are
blue. Your fag smoke rises: you connecting,
mouth to sky, and under the Mile End Road
at the Black Ditch (under the skin, the skin)
the Earth holds fast the water. I cannot bring
you in; even the bells cannot bring you in.
Ear to the ground: the mapping of the water-
courses, the mapping of the blood that sings
where you are blue. Blue smoke and sky, you
are connecting nothing with nothing, London,
London, you connect too much.
Father's Day 2013
Ella Risbridger lives in a tiny flat in the East End and dreams of rolling hills. She's currently working on a couple of novels, a collection of poetry, a brand-new food website, a degree, and writing things for anyone who wants to read what she's got to say. She really needs a holiday. You can find her on a writey blog (missellabell.wordpress.com), and the aforementioned brand new cooking blog, eatingwithmyfingers.com.