Two poems by Charlotte Gann

I feel very privileged to be able to share with you today two untitled poems from Charlotte Gann’s keenly anticipated second collection The Girl Who Criedavailable for pre-order now from HappenStance Press. Charlotte’s blog sheds a lot of light on the composition of, and ideas behind, this new collection, as well as much information on her celebrated first collection Noir

 

Around eleven every Saturday morning
I press my finger to your doorbell. Glance
at my phone or across the street – usually

someone I recognise – turn back to your
door: the mottled window with its iron
veins. Press my head closer, peer. The air

is whiter in places: if I tilt my head,
it tilts. I wonder if you heard the bell?
If I telephone, you’ll probably answer.

This is always the moment when the light
shifts slowly; slowly rearranges itself
into the small mass of your moving person.

 

The house with no door looks welcoming,
with its wisteria and robins. I can see,

through the kitchen window, a bowl
of cherries. They’re the brightest, darkest,

shiniest cherries. But that window’s shut
and bolted. I move on round. I know

I shouldn’t walk on flowerbeds.
I keep thinking the door must be around

the next corner. I’ve lost count now
how many times I’ve circumnavigated.

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