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
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.