Second Prize winner, Ver
This is re-cuperation then , this is rehabilitation.
Here by learning how to re-tie my own anxiety into bows
I will be made whole again.
From all the hobbies on the hobby table
I shall choose sand.
Sand and ribbon-reading.
By my ribbons they will know me.
I send back the mirrors made from pasta twirls.
I send back the soft toy dogs made from
cotton wool and silly tape.
The gnomes and plaster cast of Jesus (the champagne
corks still wobbling) I eschew.
These are the glories of the hobby room
where we must come before they sign us out, we damaged
I must sketch my own silhouette in beer can tops and
draw my own eyes with sea-foam and silicone.
I must re join my bones with cement and sloe-gin.
I must position my mended shadow on the wall of reason.
I must play football with my own spleen,
badminton with my own kidney.
I must leave a sample of my own cheerfulness in the cup
I must fashion a prophecy from eggshells and straw.
My hobby is leaving – this is my choice.
I will not choose another.
My lilac wings are beating a pattern in the clear space
above my head.