I
Spring has re-greened the grey of winter.
Pockets of weeds spring up through cracks in pavements.
The heat is oppressive for this time of year.
Sometimes I walk this street and can’t remember why.
Congested bin bags spill their entrails.
Ahead, a cat considers an old juice carton.
Palimpsests of leaves
pool into hideaways at the foot of trees –
their dried edges crumbling under
fractals of sun that break the canopies.
A series of smaller pathways reveal themselves,
and my feet choose a route of their own.
I’ll be uncomfortable no matter where I go
but prescient trees point the way.
A susurration of wind
skitters a discarded crisp packet past my feet –
it skimble-scambles its way
like an adventuring ship,
towards untold futures.
II
It looks like sunlight
flooding through the window
but it isn’t;
it’s just a security light.
Private property, you see.
Dust describes a distressed circle in the beam.
It punctures the murk of the flat.
Unpapered walls,
sweat-wet,
vibrate in the fever of the night.
Plastic bags unfurl in their clusters
as if tentacled.
The heat is oppressive.
I make no attempt to move.
I’m comforted by
the slow pulses of body and life,
but my limbs remain fixed
like the hanged man.
I close my eyes and focus on the
hum of the fridge in the corner.
III
I sleep on my stomach –
one leg trunk straight,
the other flamingoed into an obtuse angle,
furrowing the round of my belly.
Sweat rivulets stain the sheets.
There are vestigial wrinkles beside me,
suggestive of your form, but
I am alone.
The heat is oppressive.
The pinching-throb of my face
tells me my nose is probably broken.
Your scent is a gut punch.
I am manacled to this night and to you.
IV
Under the censorship of the café table
I grip my thigh,
corrugating the skin.
A cluster of red half-moons
are sure to emerge within the hour.
I want to be unfleshed.
The heat is oppressive.
I imagine what it would be like
to discharge a guttural cry
right here in the restaurant,
among the charmingly pleated napkins.
Later when I am alone,
shuttered behind windows,
it will be harder to pretend.
Galia Admoni is a writer, musician, crafter, and Head of English, media and film at a school in London. She has been published in Bad Lilies, Atrium, Dear Reader, Streetcake and is soon to be featured in Anthropocene magazine. She has also featured on Eat the Storms poetry podcast. She has lectured at the Shakespeare Institute, BFI, British Library and is on the committee for the London Association for the Teaching of English. Follow her on Twitter @galiamelon.