We are feet. We remain
faithful to possibilities,
to things which seem higher than us –
toes – ankles – knees – unformed breast
all baptised by imminent waves –
this flesh hides the ferocious nature of each atom,
it cements the distance between
the core of a prisoner and the core of a guard.
We call it everyday victory
with iron curtains in place.
‘I wish I learned parallel parking, had a neat hand
when pulling teeth and white hair,
became more proficient at swearing in a different language’
It is different than how we’d imagined.
The hope keeps coming in small, angular coffins
one after another
like pages from a book of colours,
turned over and over again,
reminding us how Goliath had the power
to make everything a failure.
Illustration Nick Victor