Ripe
We’re drinking wine in your kitchen, months before
the hot oil of my concern begins to spit.
I’m telling a story with both hands
while you chop garlic, drain another glass.
Over dinner we make up
theories for the new pint glass
squatting in your cupboard,
those meaty bruises
staining your thighs.
You’ve been tired for weeks
but who isn’t? The emergency of your laughter
sweetens every memory.
I blow a kiss to the last tram, drink up
all the time I am gifted in your bed.
You open another bottle. The signs are ripe
and sprouting flies.
Amy King (she/her) is a slam winning poet based in Manchester. She ran the award winning spoken word night Verbose from 2021-2022 and is currently completing a Creative writing MA at the Manchester Metropolitan University.