By Laura Potts

 

And years later, you at the bus stop.

Yesterday’s leaves in your hair.

The seat where we laughed.

Our words in the air.

Sweetheart. The years threaded up

our names scratched on the glass.

Rain argued away the grass-stained

fingerprints, the love turned over

on clumsy tongues, the moonbows,

the flimsy suns. My skin soft-tossed

in sheets, hard-kissed. The taste

of your words. The clench of my fist

in the deafening dawn. Oh day,

when the pavement rolled beneath

our feet. Bubblegum from the shop.

My Monet mouth, your Friday chips –

Stop. Darling, how we used to crease

at the waist. Pink and white laughter

poured from our lips. And when I meet

you at the curb of my sleep it is when

we were here, my heart in your hands,

your hands on my dress. They said you

spilt your filth down telephone wires.

Cheap love. Sex. I wouldn’t know.

I walked away. Like this. Yes.

 

Laura Potts is twenty-two years old and lives in West Yorkshire, England. Twice-recipient of the Foyle Young Poets Award, her work has appeared in Agenda, Prole and Poetry Salzburg Review. Having worked at The Dylan Thomas Birthplace in Swansea, Laura was last year listed in The Oxford Brookes International Poetry Prize and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She also became one of The Poetry Business’ New Poets and a BBC New Voice for 2017. Laura’s first BBC radio drama aired at Christmas, and she received a commendation from The Poetry Society in 2018

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