Intermission
The afternoon hangs like orange peel,
our lips tight as a nun’s pinch, the plump
sucked out by three pm as if through rind.
I watch clockwise hands; I don’t know
what you watch. My eyes slide from you.
We Janus face away together. If we had guns
it would be too much trouble to fire them.
Fighting now would be an act of violent faith – love –
nail your colours to a beam. Sponge your
own chest with vinegar. Take the offered
segment, flick off the pith and bite a tough
grin in your half-time slice. This still is not the end.
Alexandra Melville is a writer and educator. She was long-listed for the Poetry School’s Primers competition 2017 and her poetry has appeared in Brittle Star and MIR Online. She is studying the MA in Creative Writing and Education at Goldsmiths.