How simple you are: a strip
of land, two big roads going
up like arteries, nothing more.
A thin triangle, a lone figure.
Past your head you crumble,
scattering fragments of earth
and water, hair that is rocky
and damp with storm. I can
place my hand over you and
I can ache for you. Yet I feel
distanced. I wonder whether
you were ever mine, really.
Here I am in the hexagon of
dreams. It is like a parachute
stretched out, the sort we ran
under as kids. It is also like a
star, as gaudy and as hot. We
are vast. We are a bloody big
country, you forget how big.
From Paris roads spiral out,
pulsing, like the white lines
of an orange. How can I feel
so alone here? We are so big.
We are connected. And yet…
Elizabeth Gibson is the founder of Foxglove Journal. She is a Masters student at the University of Manchester and a Digital Reporter for Manchester Literature Festival. She is a member of The Writing Squad and her work has appeared in The Cadaverine, London Journal of Fiction, Far Off Places, Octavius, Severine and Ink, Sweat and Tears. She won second prize in The Poetry Society’s 2016 Timothy Corsellis Prize. She tweets at @Grizonne, Facebooks at https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethGibsonWriterPoet and blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk.
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