There are fifteen seconds in between letting your knuckles turn into scoops
of raspberry ripple ice cream and free falling that
feel like flying. You say that you flew
without a sat-nav, and that hope feels five miles
from where you left your soles.
I started hiding strawberry shoelaces under my bed after you tried to fly again
I said it was an inside joke,
but parts of me were trying to stay tied
to your sand-palaces and watered-down blackcurrant squash:
the parts of me that hadn’t yet become a patchwork quilt in someone else’s living room.
Some migratory birds can travel over a thousand kilometres a day,
so you made the swallows that were lodging in the old shed
muesli. I said it was a waste of oats but
you said that flying required energy so breakfast was appropriate -
I don’t know where you got it from.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch your face in the mirror
I brush my teeth for four minutes, just
in case, because you hated the dentist. You’d tell me it’s ridiculous,
but you left behind your gums, I guess they didn’t fit
in cabin luggage.
If you come back, come summer time,
don’t tell me I’ve lost all logic if I have spoken to the night sky like a friend
I have lain in the grass until three am hoping to hear the beating of wings.
Elena Chamberlain is a queer poet and writer from the Midlands. Described as “a poet of lyrical depth and razor edge” and a “rising voice not to miss”, she has worked with Apples and Snakes, performed on stages locally and nationally, led poetry collectives and has been published in various magazines/anthologies.