tell it it’s pretty, a joke to break the ice
smear blush on its cheeks
corkscrew a hole in its side
make something of the entrails
a rivulet to coax out the river
though it won’t wind the same
soak it in warm water
run its mother’s hands over its sore
arc, like a hymn
yes, call it a hymn
take it somewhere to cool down
check the switches and replace the bulbs
tell it its sister asks of it every night
needs it to kill something in the corner of her room.
Sarah Lasoye is a poet and writer from London. She is an alumna of the Barbican Young Poets and a member of Octavia – Poetry Collective for Women of Colour. This poem is from her debut collection, “Fovea / Ages Ago”, to be published by Hajar Press on 29 April.
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This article appears in the 21 Apr 2021 issue of the New Statesman, The unlikely radical