A Hate Song
Still, I am not like him: politic, useless—
paper skin on a single rib gone bad, God’s botched first draft.
The lips two flaps like broken wings.
Quick! No one tell him the resemblance!
He will spend all night complaining he can’t fly.
He has enough complaints to wallpaper the sky—
a womb for brains, you’d think, the way he moans.
But when his lids flip open to expose a soot-grey stone of eye,
there is no question he is barren.
Soulless, he’d offer himself up for surgeries he does not need just to get on TV.
He longs for touch that much, the scrummy boy.
I’ll send my sympathy by way of noise when he returns.
There will be silence.
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Poem by Sarah Fletcher (USA/ UK) Published in Issue 34 of The Ofi Press |
Sarah Fletcher was born in America but grew up in London. At fourteen she kickstarted her literary career with publication in The London Magazine. She received The Christopher Tower Poetry Prize in 2012 and 2013 (placing first, and then second) and 2012 was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year. She has read at Royal Festival Hall and The Institute of Contemporary Arts and had her work displayed at the Olympic Park and The Poetry Café, among other places. She is currently studying English Literature at Durham University.
Image used under Creative Common Laws from Geraint Rowland: "Alone on the Bridge"