Memorial
Tell me how it is up there
dancing with the nocturnes,
does Jesus still carry an IV?
Down here it’s gotten worse
as people begin to rehearse
turning around the Sun without you.
Now I’ve done the walk of 2am
the slate hedges, road glowing black
the lamps all milk-eyed
& the stars staring back.
& I know the list
who will love me now?
will they still love me now?
as you ask them to
let you be you.
but now the answer stalls
like a flight,
you: remembered
as a boy,
& forgotten as a light.
Stacey
You can carry something around
for years without the visible symptoms.
Finding your arms brambled in white
or the colour from your face
washing straight down the plughole.
There was a friend of mine
with a big laugh. Like smoke,
it could glue to the air for hours.
It would shrink into hair, you’d find
long strands in the shower tray.
We saw it last in her bedroom,
maybe it had danced before
she finally threaded,
above the door like mistletoe
the sad plant
never itself kissed.
Rebecca Bird was born in 1991 and grew up in Devon. She has previously been published in
journals including The Rialto, Cake, The Interpreter’s House, Envoi, Under the Radar and Poetry Quarterly. She graduated in 2014 with a BA (Hons) Creative Writing and English from De Montfort University.
The Poetry Shed 