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Likestarlings is a place for talking in poems. We pair poets with poets and they write a sequence of six new works by responding in turn to one another. Our palaver blog goes beyond poetry to discuss collaboration in theory and in practice. Please take a look, and feel free to add comments, opinions and suggestions here. Read poems here
 

Jacket


Finally, I see the colour consultant,
she tells me about the spectrum, decides
on midnight blue. The stars come out

during the day on this jacket. Her friends,
in jeans or worn corduroy, are lower down
the spectrum in pale blues or browns, yet

they are gentle as they strap between my legs,
pull tight across my chest. I fold my arms
to keep the lines clean. Once, at art college,

I saw a man wriggle clear of his; it was buckled
incorrectly. Mine is comfy, except when I think
wrong thoughts; then the stars ignite and fizz,

needle my blood. I’m told my imagination
leads me into temptation. I’m to relax.
A man takes me to dinner, spoons the soup,

smiles and wipes my chin. I ask if the jacket
matches my eyes. He asks if I’d like a shave.
He is in love, so are the rest. Even the consultant

glimpses something special in me, she gazes
through the glass, invites her corduroyed friends,
their eyes, their ears follow my every movement.

I grunt through my psalms, the valley of darkness.
My palms start to itch. Yea, I shall think only
good thoughts, good thoughts, good thoughts…