By Claire Sosienski Smith
I say they no longer exist in the waking dream
of quarantine. Still, I change my automated message
to on annual leave, back on the 22nd, stay safe!
The only punctuation: commas and one singular
exclamation point, sticking out from my sentence
like the offshore windfarm’s red lights
blinking in the distance as I walk along the shore.
The sun dissolves entirely into the sea, which recoils
black and squat against the salty horizon.
Across the Atlantic, there is a boy with a shaved head,
nails trimmed short, riding his bike across town
face half covered with a homemade mask
beneath a sun that has yet to set. Sent my letter today,
this song reminded me of you. I return phone to pocket
and to a night marooned in the middle of a single bed.
Author:
Claire Sosienski Smith (she/her) is based in London and spends a lot of time thinking about poetry and prison abolition. Find her on Twitter @CLAIRESOS and Instagram @cyberwitch1996.
This piece is a part of DISTANCED 3.0.
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