Love-slaughter happens when you aren’t looking,
which is the same way time passes. I’ve done the maths,
seen the fog roll in, and I’ve listened to the shearwater’s call.
Love-slaughter lays herself on the old rug by the fire,
lets you scratch her belly and fattens herself up on your offerings.
Watch her roll herself into a lazy grin, measure her in slow mornings,
the syrupy smell of porridge and checkered curtains. It’s been weeks,
or months, or years, or something else, and still she lays in the patch of sun.
When she’s good and ready, Love-slaughter burrows her way
between your lungs. Nestles down and takes a bite.
The burst of a heart is electric and sour.
Meg Gripton-Cooper, 21, has just completed a degree in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam University, and is inspired by poets such as Anne Carson, Anna Akhmatova, and Arthur Rimbaud. She has previously been published in New Writing Matter 2018.
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