London poet Sophia Blackwell's second poetry collection.

2. The Fire-Eater’s Lover
Though I forget how many times I’ve seen her,
the crowd’s held breath still gets me in a fever.
She waits, a patient statue, then her mouth
unhinges like a snake’s. She gulps the torch
like a sambuca shot. A coil of flame
kicks from her lips. A belch, a retort.
The lights dim. We watch her grow new limbs
traced with flame, a mutating goddess
searing our retinas with flaming rings.
They love what they can see – the blue foil skirt
skimming her crotch, tight biceps inked with globes,
her fuchsia hair, the poker down her throat,
but only I know her milk-blonde roots,
the veins tracing her temples, her bad dreams,
the small, cold feet freed from those spangled boots
nudging mine in bed, how her head aches
after a show, how her breath burns with fuel
and doused light, her eyes are drunk, her hands shake
like they don’t on stage, as if death
had breathed down her neck. I am hers, she’s mine,
and if she needed, she could have my breath.
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3. 43
Bitch
You said it, and my mind closed like a fist.
I looked at you and something sweet was lost.
This side of me, before, you always missed;
that’s how it is. Our lines are always crossed.
I looked at you and something sweet was lost,
an ending glimpsed. You said, It’s just a word,
that’s how it is. Our lines are always crossed,
but there were weeks of hate in what I heard,
an ending glimpsed. You said it’s just a word.
I bake you cookies, make you chicken soup,
but there were weeks of hate in what I heard,
a battered record choking on a loop.
I bake you cookies, make you chicken soup –
all that I’ve ever done for you dismissed.
A battered record choking on a loop
all I have left. I chain-smoke and get pissed,
all that I’ve ever done for you dismissed.
I guess you know you found a way inside
all I have left. I chain-smoke and get pissed.
Everything that I’ve ever tried to hide,
I guess you know. You found a way inside
this side of me. Before, you always missed.
Everything that I’ve ever tried to hide,
you said it. And my mind closed like a fist.

4. Open Heart
Yesterday I opened my heart twice.
Might be as good as it gets, but it’s something, right?
The first time, I put my arms around a woman
who had taken something from me years ago.
I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened
in a bathroom at Earl’s Court. And I think
it made her happy too. Something in both of us
healed as I walked out into the sun
past men in suits smoking on the steps.
I saw the trees, decked with blossom,
big as churches, for the first time all day.
The second time, I stood at a mic
and opened my mouth.
The book lolled in my hand,
the rhythm galloped into the dark
and what was left of my rational side
thought – this is what it is to open your heart,
a creak of hinges and wings flying out.
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