Heather Margaret St Clair is a writer, illustrator, and painter from New York who moonlights in editorial work to pay the bills. She moved to Glasgow in 2012 to complete her MLitt degree at the University of Glasgow, and has remained for the first-rate banter. Heather has the rare distinction of being both an art school and a law school drop-out before giving the writing thing a fair go.
This is her first publication. She has been the proud keeper of a diverse range of pets, including four ferrets, three German Shepherds, two barn cats, several hermit crabs, and a chinchilla-but not all at the same time. These days she just has house plants.
Wholesome poetry and beautiful short fiction Heather’s first collection, Menagerie, is delicate balance between poetry and fiction, humour and woe, grace and gravel.
All Mine
Unfulfilled
but filled
almost to bursting
like a blood-gorged tick.
Tucked under the covers it waits loyally
until it’s time for sleep.
Cuddled like a body
arms wrapped around to spoon
I stroke its furry skin
resting against my back like a lover
and imagine in my embrace, is you.
A high tolerance for pain,
I like to let it burn
leaving a red mark on me
a memory
of the night before.
All mine.
It won’t go wander
and it doesn’t need dinner
the hot water bottle
that warms me
doesn’t belittle me
like you
Dear Green Place
Spring
in
my dear, green place:
red sand stone lines narrow streets and foxes fight over refuse at night
out in front of my flat.
I watched two young foxes flirt a spring dance
barking and purring
he tugged at her ears as she swooned.
I traverse the tiny turns and back alley ways
green closes, watched by garden gnomes
to go home
to go home
to go home.
e.e. says it best, and I agree:
I thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
I made a list of places we would go
whispering galleries and windy corners:
Coney Island and Brighton Beach
the spot where John Lennon got shot
Bushwick and Bensonhurst
and the cheapest dive bar for beer in town.
But I came here, instead.
This was my year here.
Elderly couples hold hands on the bus.
“Buy a drink for yourself, hen.”
Tea and easy conversation
I watch for foxes and slippery slugs
Whisky warms my fingertips
as I stumble home from the pub.
The trees are heavy with blooms
and while strolling home I became drunk on the sweet smell
Picnics in Kelvingrove Park
Seagulls still scream for their dinner
and a helicopter fell from the sky.
This was my year here.
It has galvanized a light in me.
Your soulmate isn’t who you love the most,
it’s the one who makes you feel the most.
