my heart grew in sea glass, mother of pearl
               and now my pulse is a constant rushing, blood
                            pulled by tidal shifts. salt in my veins
               always pulling backwards.

i’m coating my lungs with tar in the hope
               that city air will stick. so far every breath
                            is hollow. i can’t help it, i’m just healthier
               when the air i’m breathing knows me.

in the basement of my body you are sometimes a candle flame,
              sometimes magma. the charred bones of the old pier
                            stick out of the sea like knives. i bring down my palm,
              iron to iron.

 

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Lorna Martin lives in North London and on @lornarabbit. Her work has most recently appeared in Rising Phoenix Review, horny poetry review, A Quiet Courageand Foxglove Journal. More: lorna-m.tumblr.com.