By Esme Bell
Like shame, you stop me sick:
Heaving at your foot, damp sickle
By my feet – who turn away, afraid.
But you, unlike me, can write in silver;
and what plains are forged,
and acres tended, and quiet empires
felled by you, unshelled warrior.
Naked bodkin, singular em dash –
command your line, your road. A car
threatens, and like a dare, you stay.
I won’t think of the wet starburst,
your treasure gorged and spilt as
guts, sharing now with the sky.
I will walk instead around, and keep
an eye open for hedgehogs.