By Bex Hainsworth
Radiohead is playing on the overnight train
somewhere between Moscow and St Petersburg,
and I ask you to lay your hands into the soft cement
of my stomach like a film star.
A circle of stop light hangs in the air,
blood moon, omen, turning the mist scarlet.
My favourite mug is knocked from the worktop,
it smashes into feathers on the floor.
Later, the skin bears thin grey scars
and tea seeps into a halo at its feet.
I wake realising I have forgotten
the French word for glove. Dawn splits a bright yoke of sun
into a sky that cracks and shivers like oil.
Bex Hainsworth (she/her) is a bisexual poet and teacher based in Leicester, UK. She won the Collection HQ Prize as part of the East Riding Festival of Words and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, Ethel Zine, Atrium, Okay Donkey, Acropolis Journal, and Brave Voices Magazine. Find her on Twitter @PoetBex.
