She wore the word shy
with a grace I never could,
tawny and watchful in corners,
boys staring owl-eyed from across the room.
Once she punched a rugby player
square in the mouth for getting too close,
retreated, gaze liquid, unsure as the blood
and surprise flowered from his lips.
We went camping in each other’s gardens.
Starchy tents and popcorn and stolen vodka.
I found her before dawn, dew-soaked,
curled in the long grass and defiantly shivering.
That was years ago. She sometimes writes me letters,
sends sage and rose petals, chips of crystal
that I line up on my desk as I think of her:
sleek, fleet, disappearing into the trees.
__________
Jen Feroze lives by the sea in Essex. She won the Poetry Business International Book and Pamphlet Competition in 2024, and placed second in the 2022/2023 Magma Editors Prize. Her debut pamphlet, Tiny Bright Thorns, is out now with Nine Pens.
The poem was selected by HLR, the Guest Editor for Anthropocene.
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