Alison Winch has a showcase feature in issue 51 of Magma.


The sleeper drops us in a Bologna dawn

rinsed blue; my mind is cracked,

out of synch

from too much snoring intimacy.

Upside down you turn me

you seek toilets and I track sound

and men upside down boy,

you turn me inside out

thoughts asleep, senses freed,

sharpening to café clarity,

split coffee beans, spuming milk,

glare of a white cup and the fizz

of aqua frizzante in a small glass.

aware that you’re cheating

the mirror sneaks the barista,

his neck, hips, fishbowl windows

giving love instinctively

we hum, breathe in time, a wink, a flush,

the radio as driven as our flirting.

You open the door. I cherish the moments with you

Russell Square

I lie in a green incubator,

disinfecting my soul with chlorophyll.

I´ve been scavenging at the back

side of yellow lines

in this city´s tubes for too many lives.

The sun is ignoring me

but the sky is mine; yellow roses, ash trees,

sycamores are mine

and nectarine stones, pear cores.

I´ve been in repose

since the scraggy dawn

handed herself in

to the summer solstice. It´s Tuesday

and I´ve surrendered my 9am.

I´m incensed by pregnancies

and mortgaged friends.

This is all I have.

My soul is not a bird,

it is sluttishly coupled

to this body, its chins, verrucas.

I breathe London´s collapsing lung,

its green thoughts.

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