The She In The Shell. Poem by Ian Kellett

Her flesh is irrevocable,
But on sun dried days she
Repairs her banks and her ings
Just in case it should rain at high
Tide. Full after the first shovel goes
In; without which she would
Catch her death of cold
Or, more unfortunately, age.
Although she’s still a little philistine
Sometimes she approaches the knowable
Things and does ask for the least to be reded
In preparation for tomorrow’s
Possible questions.
And even if the insides of her eyes are
Somewhat mossed over this helps her to cling
To the present because of the abstract characters
Of her past, and is comforted by the thirsty trysts
That take all of her life in their stride. The opposite
Of a photographic memory, not so graphic
Maybe, but still able
To figure the many visions she is.
Projecting her fears onto sequences of
Unrelated events and connecting the dots of
Unnumbered coincidences in a flurry of paranoid
Activity, but when you’ve made the most of your life’s
Acquaintances and taken to boasting of them with
The greatest of ease and found yourself loitering
Upon a deserted beach then is
There any wonder.