Rebecca Bird

 

 

 

3am Sestina

I

I walk through the night’s unquiet.
A few gin-blushed drinkers
bleaching under
streetlamps, breathing
in the overbite of a cigarette,
the promises of clocks.

And this is the night the clocks
turn back. And they do so quietly
saving daylight whilst cigarettes
float in unfinished drinks.
It’s cold. Not enough to see my breath,
just a couple of degrees under

on this night to be slept under.
I walk by. They don’t clock
me, they don’t hear my breathing.
They drift in the quiet;
this icefield of drunks,
trading history for cigarettes.

II

And some lad is selling cigarettes.
He’s parked up, under
ad boards for half price drinks.
On his dashboard, a clock
is an hour short now, beeping quietly,
all steamed up with breath.

As he smokes, he holds his breath
with the drag of the cigarette.
I think he appreciates quiet;
appreciates being under
the concern of clocks.
If he drank

to anything it would be to drink.
Unwinding his window, breathing
in the night, he decides to clock
out. He throws his cigarette,
and the drunks fall under
their mouths full of quiet.

 

 

Rebecca Bird is a 21 year old writer hailing from the Westcountry. She is currently studying for a BA in Creative Writing & English at De Montfort University and has been published in journals including The Bakery, Envoi and Eunoia Review.

 

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