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2 poems by Emily Taylor


Excerpt from They Don’t Make Sunday Because of God


6.

I buy hydrangeas as proof

and because pinks appear quilted

I know they hold water

as I myself.


7.

I sit with six white men agonising

the placement of a comma. They pity it

for meaning break. We torture choice

of font, too fat. I am somewhere else, too

light like Lexend. Minutes: The morning will hit

and we will lose it.


8.

I feel nervous. So I spoon tender steak, beef salt

savoury enough to ignore small touch. I know

you’re not flirting. Or you are. Or you

are describing love like the mole

behind his knee. Silence as we make

graves of soy sauce.


9.

I dream my aunt folds hands to hymnals

to palp the frond in my pelvis.

I say: So, Is it a child

or Is it a tumour? Sage as wisdom

green, she already knows

they are my mothers cells the same.


10.

I am choked with options, or

no options at all. Poet, grief and love are

synonyms; to know and to do foil each other

and I think now I’ll change my life.

Quit smoking.


11.

I thank fate with a cigarette

for my spin instructor and the woman who

wraps my hands in hers. We scatter

like sheds of cocaine on my dresser.

My people are not ones for touch

when in feeling.


12.

I want booze and distraction so

I tell him the Camden Head had a name

like a premonition. That growth is no better

than a selfish grapefruit hiding juice

in its pips. He asks what we are doing here.

And I say: just making sure.


13.

Manufactured By Pfizer, the P is silent

until lids loosen in their cage.

I ask him: When will you make

dreams come true? He tells me prayers

are for the woke. That they don’t make Sunday

because of God.



Dictionary

after Tiphanie Yanique


Body (noun): a thing to be desired. Collection

of organs strung together by thin layers of fat and skin.

Predominantly an object to men. What one must give

to husband, predominantly. The central part

of something. Skeletal. Predominantly controlled

by the state. That is, the husband one must take. That

is, pre domination, one has self control.

But only when so permitted.


To get bodied (verb): of Beyoncratic origins.

As in, Beyoncé thought a creative way to say

fuck me Jay Z. Ingenious use of lyric innuendo.

As in, please get me bodied, woman whispers

to man. To beg in a way only men can imagine.

As in, my first lyrics were written by men.


To body (verb): to break out in fight. To squeeze eyes

to matter. To stretch skin to cobweb. To slam against

the broad pavement of another’s chest. As in,

what my mother endured. As in, ceilings are to heads

what chambers are to trample.


Body count (slur): a thing to be ashamed of.

A key that opens many locks is a good key;

a lock that opens by any key is a shitty lock.

As in, my best friend had only three men

and no women. As in, my priest called me

a whore and I am a terrible Catholic girl. As

in, my Doctor asks in that six: is there a reason

for so many partners? I think,

for a woman,

sex is something to be feared.


_____

Emily is a writer based in London. Her socials are @emwrote (X) and @emilyraylot (Instagram).


These poems were chosen by Anthropocene Guest Editor HLR.


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