#BLM

There is an old house Mummy calls it ‘the past’ There is a plaque above the door in bronze and at last do we step inside Mummy and I. We tread across sallow floorboards, and I bask between old statues of men wondering what kind of a name ‘Slave Trader’ is. Everything here is labelled.

COVID Survivor, Trying to be a Writer Part I

It’s strange To sit at a computer from when the dawn opens until the sun blossoms into night. It’s strange to sit, imaging my hands are deftly floating over a typewriter rather than a keyboard trying to make words more than they are. And trying to make stories mean more then they do. Rejection after

Infected with COVID-19 Day Seven

Waking up at dawn, Lightning licking the sky outside my window As my chest breathes a little louder, faster, better, A smile burdens my lips For the first time in weeks. Dad coming to visit tomorrow My smile grows in spades Lockdown easing, a little premature methinks, but I cannot stop the hope which blossoms

Infected with COVID-19 Day Six

The air is dancing on my chest Making my lungs wheeze as if in laughter. I think of those fighting for their lives and raise my hand in a salute. The hot weather beats me, each beam of sun a wooden stick or metal pipe. I can hardly breathe, but I am here, and as

Infected with COVID-19: Day Five

VE Day, trapped inside Imagining children in rags huddled in the underground Imagining NHS soldiers storming the beaches, needless like guns in their hands. Lumbering from one room to another, skin seeping into the sofa. Cheeks hot, burning, lava in my breath. But I watch the sky for aeroplanes and think of those who are

Infected with COVID-19: Day Three

I used to live under the illusion that Getting up was not a feat of the imagination But today my limbs were led, as if I were Some rusty mechanism In a scrapyard, ready to be crushed beneath a slab. I used to live under the illusion that making it downstairs To put on the

Diagnosed with COVID-19: Day One

I. Diagnosed on Sunday night Far beyond the window No more wallowing in uncertainty Or perhaps the uncertainty was preferable. II. Skyped our friends and family members watched their eyes glaze like honeyed milk we never asked for this, but there we were I always said we had bad luck. III. Half in slumber, tossing

Prodigal Daughter

I would like to think my skin is Tree bark. Not quite bulletproof, yet Sturdy enough to withstand a thousand Swords, and knives and spears. I would like to think I would not be felled by an axe crafted from the gnarled Bricks of a broken home. Even though People say I am the product

Small Victories

It’s the nights where you manage to blink The fireworks from your eyes and snuggle into the Wings of the duvet. Drift off in a few short breaths. The nights you re-set your internal clock to a more Reasonable time. The nights which ensure you can feel like Yourself again rather than a wisp of

An Ode to My Pillowcases

With pinking cheeks against The darkness of the room, I am Afraid to sleep. Tonight, every night for the past Two weeks. I am afraid to sleep. Afraid of Sleeping. As if sleeping is the monster under my bed Or the ghost in my wardrobe, ready to jump out And smother me. The pillows beneath