A poem by Rebecca Bird

Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle

Considering the 1 2 3 4 of her digits
and the ziggurat of carpal bones:
all columned cashews and peashells,
pumice-stones and corner-moons,
her hand should not be too hard to hold.

In the morning, it passes me coffee,
points out the Sunday funnies in the paper.
At the beach, her hand cups like a sieve
digs deep for the shells and stones
you only find in the rich grain of cathedrals.

It is later in town, razored by stern looks,
phantom limbs on repeat, when I feel
her hand stiffen. Fingers curl like toes,
curl like that little mouth of mine she loves,
prawn-pink and ossified.
(published in English Chicago Review)
Rebecca Bird is a 22 year old poet from Devon. She has been published in The Rialto, Envoi and the Interpreter’s House, amongst others. She tweets @thisisthebird