Andrew James Menken: ‘The Yellow Gate’ and ‘The Somnambulist’

The Yellow Gate

Most of the yellow gate
is in sunlight,
but some of the yellow gate

is in shade; two birds
pierce the blue sky: a pair
of black arrowheads

above my half-opened book;
I never noticed
this gate had a padlock

and strips of silver
wire for trumpet vines to climb;
the birds hover

now and play a game of tips
between a groove
in the gate; a tree limb pops

through the lattice:
a hand with outstretched fingers
that gropes for a space

beyond the yellow gate
and a man hemmed in
by the shadows it creates.

Andrew James Menken

The Somnambulist

On lonely nights I find myself at dawn
searching for earphones then a playlist
of gentle ocean sounds; I have a yawn
that could swallow any seaside town;

with an open-handed whack or wild fist
I fluff my pillow; I forget how to count
during breathing exercises. A truck horn
seeps through the window while I drown

in first light. The shower throws a mist
over my mirror like a bedsheet: a ghost
conjured by heat. I leave home to haunt
the coffee shop or float along the frown

of the shore. A few old caravans glint
beside houses; others are ditched down
side streets and pop up like gangly wrist
bones. My purgatory ends on a windblown

stretch where waves lash a wharf’s gaunt
wooden legs, the bodies of dinghies rust
in algae coats and fishermen’s eyes rest
on a waking and confused somnambulist.

Andrew James Menken