i for hours |you for years
that night the Pennine air hungered for fresh blood
its glacier stung red burn on margins
rum rolled over ice and generic indie music played
flashbacks break into pieces—
sliding down a window in a kebab shop laughing,
stumbling over shoes, him behind me, waking up
half-dressed. I caught the train,
with the night secret stored, broken mind trailing
paper promises on unravelling tracks.
Michéle Beck grew up and lives in Doncaster. She works as a freelance writer and as treasurer for the Ted Hughes Poetry Festival in South Yorkshire.