I didn’t know what a membrane was and then you told me.
I started attributing the word to everything,
even things that were not membranes;
in fact, especially things that were not membranes.
When black mould multiplied in the shower
I shouted membrane, when the cheese plant wilted
at peculiar angles – membrane.
The memory of your hipbones crashing down,
the sweat, the yes baby’s, the shifting power
and now shadows, open curtains, one body
in an empty room breathing louder and louder –
all of these, wonderful membranes.
If someone was around, they’d ask me why.
Well, I’d say, I cannot help it. I grow strange
and uncertain fascinations, like finding a word for distance
that is both exactly, yet not quite
Kaylen Forsyth is a Creative Writing Student beginning an MA at the University of Manchester’s Centre for New Writing. She is originally from Maryport, and her poetry focuses on the minutia of the Cumbrian landscape, as well as the link between the psychological and paranormal.