Florence Walker: 2 Poems

Exit Polls

My skin tears in three places.

One: a curve round the ball of my left foot,

where the shower door cut deep.

A curve I’d then follow in the rain

to knock on closed doors in unfamiliar streets.

Two: the back of my left ankle, in the place

where boot leather is most uncompromising.

I picked the skin in idle moments, until it tore

and new blood rose to meet my hands.

Where the skin breaks, there is red.

Three: the tip of my right-hand middle finger.

I don’t know when this one formed

but it gives dull shrieks with every touch.

A passage cut quick to the nerve.

My head, too, feels an exposed nerve

when I enter the cold air of the world

to walk amongst my enemies.

Further Notes on A Separation

I don't know how far you're going.

So much is hidden.

I'm praying for a second sudden relief;

I'm fucking agnostic.

It’s bitterer having been delayed.

That’s just a fact.

As true as my shot-through faith

in the power of place and time.

Tacking on a smile for your benefit,

is the fucking

cherry on top, really. But isn't that

the point? If I cared less-

Enough of this half-baked nonsense.

We're gonna make it.

Of fucking course we are.

And you’re never reading this poem.

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Florence Walker is a recent graduate of Oxford University. Her work has been published in the 2017 Mays Anthology and featured on Acumen's 'Young Poets' page. While not writing, she can be found indulging in LARP (live action role-playing games), musical theatre, and video games.