by Lia Brooks
Egglike, safest in your shell,
Limbs round the spark, and sun-jawed,
Warmed like a chick. A hopefulness
Feather-spread on a gull’s soar.
Coiled in your wish like a spring,
Searching your view like eagles do.
Blind as a potato from the harvest
Of Autumn to the last plate of July.
O high-flyer, my tiny pie.
Lost as dune rain and wanted like daylight.
Far from morning as midnight.
North-stayed hands, our stopped watch.
Caught as a breath and vacant
Like a zero on a graph.
A crackle of bark, all breaks.
Trembling as a birthday jelly.
White, like a moment gone.
A tea time, with your sunny face on.
with apologies, Sylvia Plath, to you and “You’re“
Lia Brooks, twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, has had poems published in various magazines and journals in the U.K. and the U.S. These include Poetry London, Lily Lit Review, California Quarterly, Magma Poetry newsletters, American Poetry Journal, South and Penumbra. She was short-listed for the New Leaf Short Poetry Prize and has been part of two ekphrastic events in collaboration with painters in Indiana and California. She lives in Southampton, U.K., with her partner and two sons.