The reassurance machine
Listen to Jo reading this poem:
I turned to the machine after the rupture in Biarritz. The green drink had clouded in the glass one too many times. A world where globules of nicotine sweat beaded on basement ceilings had lost its appeal. He gave the flower of death as apology. It gave me a migraine. I started to crave simplicity, the clean metallic planes of the machine. It calmed me, like the moon used to. Reflecting light: it offered validation, scored highly on agreeableness. It cradled my secrets in the cloud, counselled me with the averages of a thousand self-help books. The machine was formed from our ribs. The Gods were irate we’d forsaken their natural world. They squeezed the cloud, released torrents of secrets and vanity. Devoid of content, the networks fell silent. We emerged stunned. Blue sky and green leaves felt like violence after the machine’s neutrality. The view remained panoramic.
Needled
Listen to Jo reading this poem:
Dressmakers’ daughters lack patience for needles. They roll intricate spliffs, brew beer in a cupboard, have rusty tools in their sheds. Early in life they learned to stand still to avoid being pestered by pins. They have too many blankets and a penchant for crisps. Their mothers have mastered the art of concealment. They use darts for distraction, weave ribbons through disputes, embroider to obscure the seams. When their mother’s around them the mouths of the daughters are stitched firmly closed with red thread.
Jo Rigg is a web developer, writer and runner based in York. She has recently returned to writing after a long hiatus and her work has recently appeared in And Other Poems. She posts infrequently on BlueSky: @jorigg.bsky.social