Held
in hold
we are hip to hip
your palm pressed firm
in the small of my back
fingerprints left on vertebrae,
the flexing of the chord
in hold
your heart beats
in my chest and rattles
bones, busting in or out I can’t
decide, your gut wrestling mine
to the floor, tangled hair
in hold
the walls are air
the landing cold, hard
hands tied I do not merge
but spread thinner, thinner still
until I am seen, invisible.
Zelda Chappel is a poet and occasional photographer living halfway between the city and the sea. Slightly obsessed with fountain pens and tea. Previously published in Popshot, South Bank Poetry and Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual 2012 (and a couple of others).