Emily Willis

 

 

 

Happi–ness—

I can map all the rivers in my head. I know their history.
How many bodies they’ve carried. The cities they cut through.
I know the dates this one flooded
the abutments of the Pont Alexandre
and reached for the wrists of nymphs.
When it distends like this it is
searching for salt. For sweat, or
it wants
I am buoyant again stepping into this
glass lift – what if aeroplanes were made of glass?
That was the last thought before this anaemic body le–
ft the brain behind on level one
where I’d seen roses
hung across the river, rock
–ing. At the top, was just a giddy la–
ck that lurched out onto metal steps and
a medial pulse between the railings
When I came down from the Tower
a man with a gun pointed at a petal floating
and I thought of the way that water fills
itself—the florist held out a glass and I dr—
ank this what—we—take
—in that passes through us

 

 

 

Emily Willis read English at The University of York and is studying an MA in Creative Writing at UEA. She has been published by Café Writers, winning the Norfolk Prize in the 2016 Competition. She is co-founder of The Narrator. Blog: emilywillisblog.wordpress.com

Comments are closed.