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