BETH DAVIES – TWO POEMS
You spend more time
imagining yourself driftwood
than mermaid. While others swim,
you curl foetal, pretend
you don’t need air.
If you float long enough,
the ocean might erode
your rough edges, polish
your bones pebble-smooth.
You are not strong, never sure
when to take a breath, but you know
the air in your lungs is enough
to keep you afloat. You could drift
until the world washes away
and you cannot hear the teacher
telling you to resurface.
On Realising Home is More than One Place
Talking to my parents, I bite back habit
and call it ‘college’. I can’t explain how definitions
expand, how even my own name
keeps redefining itself, how my heart
is a dog-eared dictionary, constantly being revised.
Home (noun) will always mean
my steel-blooded seven-hilled city,
the house I’ve known longer than myself.
But that’s only the first entry.
In the glow of late-night laughter,
I wonder why no one told me
my ribcage could hold two cities.
Beth is from Sheffield and currently studies Philosophy in Durham.