The Seventh Day of Christmas: Adam Warne, Zelda Chappel

 

 

A Christmas Carol From Ovid


He dumped her by text.

She sat outside Costa and read the message:

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore”

What a dick.

She wasn’t going to let him make her cry.

She started to cry.

 

As she cried

the tears flowed down her cheeks

in burning rivulets.

As she cried

the tears began to burn away her skin.

Fur pushed towards the surface,

a pair of antlers sprouted,

her nose went red.

 

She cried and cried

until she had forgotten herself

and off she galloped,

leapt into the night

heading north.

 

 

Adam Warne: In the past Adam was part of 28 Sonnets Later and performed at Luton Fringe Festival with The Poetry Choir. He got a degree from UEA, organised cabaret nights and his poetry appeared online and in The Rialto. Following these successes, he’s now employed to push trolleys at Asda.

 

 

 

Afterwards we found

 

space for whiskey-stained ghosts to pass between our lips.

Tonight we’ll mark the days’ shortness with our breaths

and taught skins.  Touching, clouds of whispers dissipate

slow, linger cold as orbs

hung low.

 

From the pavement, streetlamps pick out laughter with

precision, watch it dance with night ’til we fold mesmerised

by our own noises.  Tonight we are caught moving just out

of reach.  The cold never felt

so warm.

 

 

Zelda Chappel is a poet and occasional photographer living halfway between the city and the sea.  Slightly obsessed with fountain pens and tea. Previously published in Popshot, South Bank Poetry and Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual 2012 (and a couple of others).

 

 

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