It’s Friday, and I want to hold
the day down by its neck to keep it still.
By sunset, I’ll have chipped the polish off
my nails from nervousness.
At midnight, I will watch my skin suck
back your love bites till I’m as pale as shell,
restored like some old painting. Recanvased.
The body recognises loss before the mind:
it comes in weekly like a maid to sweep
bruises away, even the ones my neck
wore like a pearl-string, that had a pulse.
They have gone like dust.
The cells move on, continuing like
worker bees. They did not know
that you were here, just registered you
as a pain to fix. Somatic, nothing more.
They give you up, and so
I give you up.
~ Sarah Fletcher
Sarah Fletcher is a British-American poet based in London. She was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year in 2012 and two-time recipient of the Christopher Tower Poetry Prize in 2012 and 2013. She has been published in The London Magazine, Ink Swear & Tears, Thought Catalogue, and more, and has an upcoming pamphlet coming out with Dead Ink.