A cross lights up in the distance, a bird
skeleton. We roll by faith
my inhale dry like the hoarse
wind in the lungs of a chainsmoker.
Bruised night skies and a
flatpack cross over factories.
Where does it come from?
Does it cascade down
on McDonalds cafés, duck-yellow,
on married couples,
on all the Shakshoukas being made?
A river in my water bottle
blue blood in my veins,
winter cold as every iron bench
every dry hand and paw
every freezer burn bread. Fruit preserves slipping through
hands in the dawn.
I vacuum seal figs and leave, suddenly. The hushed cut of air. Bagel stands.
Liv Aldridge is a writer and poet from rural Sweden. She is pursuing a Literature degree in Durham, but is living in Kraków for a year. Her poems have appeared in The Gentian and Carmen et Error and her reviews appear occasionally in NARC.