Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

An august sacrament

The sun lowered itself into our six o’clock
armchair, blushing cream walls to the tune
of Dionysus’s blood, your faith between
my ribs chanting thanks to God for the static
under fingernails

and when the same sun has gone tortoise-slow
and quiet through the ground beneath us
the breeze that didn’t blow today transforms
a moonless night into myth—a remark thrown into shape:
it’s summer, these things happen

I know
you would dance through
blackthorn if I asked

You know
I try to believe
in empires, effigies

she's a pirateKate Garrett writes and edits. She founded Three Drops Press in 2015, and is senior editor for poetry and flash fiction at Pankhearst. Her work appears in various journals online and in print, and her latest pamphlet, The Density of Salt, is out now from Indigo Dreams. She lives in Sheffield, UK with her husband, a cat, and three trolls who call her “Mum”.

Categories: Poetry, Themed, UK Poets

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