When I say your name, people refuse.
They correct me in disbelief, that
you, are called what I say you are,
replacing your identity with something more familiar;
satsuma.
I’m not sure why my fingers are drawn to you. I have yet to
care until now; you were made for me. Genetically modified in size and
colour.
You fit in my palm, smooth and familiar.
Push my thumbs against your skin; luckily there is no imprint.
(I regret not savouring that moment more).
A hybrid, but I shall have
no part in that.
You’ve been good to me.
When you ensconce with my yo-yo, in that old wax pocket
I forget you too have (are) a life.
It’s raining now, and I don’t see you as clearly as I did.
St Sebastian in an orange t-shirt.
I was showering and I realised why I hold you!
Because you. are. earnest.
You give yourself up so easily to me.
I don’t need an invitation. Just
unfold /tear/ collapse you; burst in my mouth.
Rachel Ferguson is a writer from the North West with an MA from the University of Liverpool. She is primarily interested in the role of urbanity/cities and social spaces in gender performance. Find her on instagram @racheljferguson.
