Value
Remember when our currency was horses?
I’d buy a stable full of you
trade in unicorns
an unusual bargain
back when we both knew
the going rate
hooves churning
gold topped milk crests
wild thundering plains. I’d be moved
if we purchased a loaf of bread
sure in the knowledge of oil-slicked flanks
muscles straining beneath
a wealth of polished hide
more precious than paper
worth more than the value
it claims to hold.
Heroes
To our darling selves, we chimed, running with stick guns and darting finger-swords.
You you you. Always you. How the world swelled at those petty midnights; how we lost shoes
and wore each other home.
I never told you how I felt. It was heavy business to twist the dagger so. Tetanus shot of leaded
air. Parking lot arsonist dipped in burger grease.
Divine.
You stalked me home, slipped slick palm into mine, said is it pennies that smell like rain or is rain just God’s loose change?
They said it was a cigarette. Drifting you to sleep.
Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.