The Swords by Abigail Parry

Nine shafts in steely fluency, between 
the headboard and the wall
grey-blue
             like ice or gunships    brute and serious
                                       a face between cupped hands
and all the saints
polite as china mice up on the shelf.
                                                                      Eight 
                                     silver wicket gates
                            the minor byways
that span and fret the dark        a painted heart
              ringed round with thorns
              eight hard-pressed fingers groping up to heaven.
                                                                       Seven
                                        shining hells, assorted demi-hells    his eyes
                                        are humbler than they used to be.
                                        Seven
keys to the too-tall maze       blue
leaves like folded razorblades       you, trapped inside 
              or opening the door, not knowing me
                              that hissing water lily, blue
                              and blue and liquid orange round its ring. 
Six bubbles, in a string.
                          Now count them – sugar
necklace, stream or abacus
a line of silver, running
from your mouth up to the ceiling
             that’s how you know      which way to swim
that’s how you know
                                      which way is up
                                      Now count them,
                                                   count again.    Now swim –
                                                                     Five
fins on the propeller
or any large machine that scythes or pumps or stirs the water.
                                                                     Four
                                      warrior angels, crumpled round their swords.
                                                                     Three
                                      twins to my unhinged half
                                      gone missing from the mirror. 
                                                                     Two
                                      black holes where the eyes should be.

One aircrewman, who lives in the museum
his ’chute all rucked and pooled.
                                                                    Stubbed
nose of the submarine

Old Man Pike, who sculls the dark
                          and one blunt thought,
                          its lead balloon:                     full
                                                                    stop where the air runs out.