Caroline Bird Biography

I surrender my weapons:
Catapult Tears, Rain-Cloud Hat,
Lip Zip, Brittle Coat, Taut Teeth
in guarded rows. Pluck this plate
of armor from my ear, drop
it in the Amnesty Bin,
watch my sadness land among
the dark shapes of memory.

Unarmed, now see me saunter
past Ticking Baggage, Loaded
Questions, Gangs of Doubt; my love
equips me. I swear, ever
since your cheeky face span round
I trust this whole bloody world.
...

She arrived at the country mansion in a silver limousine.
She'd sent out invitations and everything:
her name written twice with "&" in the middle,
the calligraphy of coupling.
She strode down the aisle to "At Last" by Etta James,
faced the celebrant like a keen soldier reporting for duty,
her voice shaky yet sure. I do. I do.
"You may now kiss the mirror." Applause. Confetti.
Every single one of the hundred and forty guests
deemed the service "unimprovable."
Especially the vows. So "from the heart."
Her wedding gown was ivory; pointedly off-white,
"After all, we've shared a bed for thirty-two years,"
she quipped in her first speech,
"I'm hardly virginal if you know what I mean."
(No one knew exactly what she meant.)
Not a soul questioned their devotion.
You only had to look at them. Hand cupped in hand.
Smiling out of the same eyes. You could sense
their secret language, bone-deep, blended blood.
Toasts were frequent, tearful. One guest
eyed his wife — hovering harmlessly at the bar — and
imagined what his life might've been if
he'd responded, years ago, to that offer in his head:
"I'm the only one who will ever truly understand you.
Marry me, Derek. I love you. Marry me."
At the time, he hadn't taken his proposal seriously.
He recharged his champagne flute, watched
the newlywed cut her five-tiered cake, both hands
on the knife. "Is it too late for us to try?" Derek whispered
to no one, as the bride glided herself onto the dance floor,
taking turns first to lead then follow.
...

In the dry light of morning, I return to the well.
You think you know the outcome of this story.

Sunshine is a naked, roaming thing like hurt.
A well is a chance embedded in the ground.

The well was dry yesterday and the day before.
You think you know the lot about sunshine -

an early bird knows sod all about perseverance.
Good people, you lay down your curling souls

on the dust and surrender. I swing my bucket.
If the well is dry today I will come back tomorrow.
...

A poem about hysteria

You could order them from China over the Internet.
The website showed a grainy picture of Vivienne Lee
in Streetcar Named Desire.
It was two vials for twenty euros
and they were packaged like AA batteries.

They first became popular on the young German art scene -
thin boys would tap a few drops into their eyes then
paint their girlfriends legs akimbo and faces cramped
with wisdom, in the style of the Weimar Republic. It was
sexy. They weren't like artificial Hollywood tears,
they had a sticky, salty texture
and a staggered release system. One minute,
you're sitting at the dinner table eating a perfectly nice steak
then you're crying until you're sick in a plant-pot.

My partner sadly became addicted to Mystery Tears.
A thousand pounds went in a week
and everything I did provoked despair.
She loved the trickling sensation.
‘It's so romantic,' she said, ‘and yet I feel nothing.'
She started labelling her stash with names like
For Another and Things I Dare Not Tell.
She alternated vials, sometimes
cried all night.

She had bottles sent by special delivery marked
Not Enough. A dealer sold her stuff cut with
Fairy Liquid, street-name: River of Sorrow.
Our flat shook and dampened. I never
touched it. Each day she woke up

calmer and calmer.
...

Long before we tie the knot, Divorce moves in.
He sits on the naughty step, patting his knees.

Crowned in towel, I step out the shower
and he's there, handing me a raffle ticket.

He plays kick-about with the neighbourhood kids,
chalks crosses on their doors and buys them Big Macs

Socking his fist into the bowl of his hat,
he'd kicked the gate wide, that sunny day in Leeds.

My mum was incredulous, "she's only ten,
she can't possibly have made contact with you."

He clocked my young face and handed me his card.
‘Call me when you fall in love, I'm here to help.'

Perhaps he smelt something in my pheromones,
a cynicism rising from my milk-teeth.

With gum, he stuck notes on Valentine's flowers:
tiny life-letters in factual grey ink.

The future cut two keys for a new couple.
On my twenty-first, Divorce took the spare room.

He loves to breathe down the spout of the kettle,
make our morning coffee taste mature and sad.

He waits by the car, slowly tapping Tic-Tacs
down his throat. We've thought about stabbing him,

but he's such a talented calligrapher:
our wedding invitations look posh as pearl.

He bought us this novelty fridge-magnet set,
a naked doll with stick-on wedding dresses.

Divorce and I sometimes sit in the kitchen,
chucking odd magnetic outfits at the fridge.

He does the cooking, guarding over the soup,
dipping his ladle like a spectral butler.

He picks me daisies, makes me mix-tapes, whispers
‘call me D,' next thing he'll be lifting the veil.

After the honeymoon, we'll do up the loft,
give Divorce his own studio apartment.

We must keep him sweet, my fiancé agrees,
look him in the eye, subtly hide matches,

remember we've an arsonist in the house.
The neighbours think we're crazy, pampering him

like a treasured child, warming his freezing feet,
but we sing Divorce to sleep with long love songs.
...