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2 poems by Galia Admoni

We shared a space once

The roof-room of a Dalston dwelling

Pub and real-life adjacent

A little space for us to play house

White sheets were new to me but I didn’t mind

You used moisturiser and took months

to let me leave things in the bathroom

I wifed downstairs in the kitchen while

you trained for a marathon

Remember when we ran into Ollie in the supermarket?

You wanted homemade pizza,

nothing shop bought, and somehow

blamed me for loving too soon.

I’d rub you through the pockets of your tracksuit while

you washed the dishes. You brought my

washbag to my mum’s to end it all.

On walking past the flat with the white door in the block next to the Shacklewell Arms

There is too much grief in the marrow of the place.

I still love you more than I should.


Galia is a Head of English in London. She has poems in Bad Lilies, Atrium, Dear Reader, Streetcake, Zero Readers and Eat the Storms. She has lectured at Shakespeare Institute, BFI, British Library. Follow her on Twitter @galiamelon


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