Luís Costa
there is not much
I can tell, truly.
I am swimming with my clothes on
and it may appear that I’m breathing
but I’m not.
I’ve just gotten used to the usualness
of it all. the misplaced sadness,
a karaoke booth (the lights are blue),
my coffee table becoming a graveyard
for fish-shaped soy sauce
containers. there is, of course, the glacier
growing in my chest, slow yet confident
winter will reach every
thing. but please don’t worry,
it’s normal. I am watering the plants.
I haven’t run out of tv yet. refuges
remain safe – and I guess that’s good.
on day one, the windows shattered.
it’s hard to imagine now this was a house
where light prevailed
and books were read.
today I bought flowers and wine, it felt
like the first time. then I put them away.
the piano will need tuning, the cold
always shrinks the strings.
it’s just that I keep leaving the bedroom
door open – I keep hoping
that you’ll come in.
Luís Costa (he/they) is the author of two dying lovers holding a cat (fourteen publishing, 2023). His poems have been published in Queerlings, Stone of Madness, Roi Fainéant, Dust, Anthropocene, Fahmidan, the anthology He/She/They/Us (Macmillan, 2024), and elsewhere. Luís is one of the founding editors of the poetry magazine Seaford Review. He holds a PhD from Goldsmiths and lives in London, you can find him on social media @captainiberia.
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