published by Powders Press
People asked me to squeeze in,
move over, make room, because I
existed – no – charged, bucking,
brought down only
by an unfair advantage; my steps
would topple photo frames.
You’re not taken seriously
when you look like you’re skipping.
Her temples clench, now, against
the ridges of my sternum,
skin tight as a spent trampoline –
clingfilm-wrapped snack
left too long in a tote bag. I was
hilly once, soft-snow sloped,
pillowlike memory foam,
absorbing her shape, remembering.
Ceri Savage 