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Hilary Watson
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the poet
Growing up in South Wales and now living in Cardiff, Hilary Watson graduated from the University of Warwick with a BA and MA in Writing. She was a Jerwood/Arvon mentee, and has had her poetry published widely in UK and international magazines, including Atrium, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal and The Interpreter's House. Hilary is also an editor at thrutopian writing magazine, Bending The Arc.
the poems
Accountability
Badger
Badger glares at you in the street
from behind the net curtains
of his two up two down.
No chimney smoke,
no love escaping
the chambers of his heart.
He knows what you did,
what you keep doing
to yourself
each time you choose
avoidance, when you’re too
fearful to forgive.
‘Unforgivable,’ he mutters,
sipping tepid Marmite, his claws
tight on the handle of the mug.
He’s thinking now
of earthworms, slugs,
of how you hold him hostage
in this Valleys town
because you crave
accountability,
refuse to take the test,
to do the work
yourself,
the stripes
behind his ears
turning grey.
‘One last job,’ he’d said,
typically assignments
taking half as long.
He clasps the teaspoon
in his padded paw,
stirs clockwise,
anticlockwise,
tuts, shakes
his head
as some new excuse
issues from your
mouth.
Excuse
The excuse arrives in the palm as though
it was always going to land there,
like a dragonfly out on the hunt,
settling to eat its catch.
The excuse is effervescent,
more delicate than expected
but who can deny that weight of legs
in the centre of an outstretched hand?
Fortunes cannot be read, but look here;
that stance across the life and love lines
folded into crevices. Who could ask
for a more convincing reason, conceive
of a lie that cuts so deep as the jaw
of that magnificent dragonfly crushing
a gnat to cells?
Pygmy Hippo
Lean at my gate. The man in green
throws carrots into this stew
of my own making. Submerged,
I can hold my breath for ages,
walk underwater, bob for air,
my nostrils bubbling apostrophes.
Toss me a dandelion leaf.
I’ll show you that to love me
is to know no decency.
Shy, me? I can go months without
making a peep. I sweat blood.
Ferocity’s my middle name.
The man in green
throws cucumber, fern fronds.
I am going to die here.
A young human climbs
an old human.
Some fun, at last.
Find the diamond
resting on my tongue.
I’ll open wide.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb