by JLM Morton
-after George Harrison
We met on a night I let myself be caught
off-guard. You, me, an afterparty in the early summer rain –
we fell in love without warning by the Himalayan Paul.
You have never stopped saying come here,
since that gift of an axe for the firewood, I guessed
we’d sing an intricate music that only we could know.
I’ve held our love like the quince in that first garden,
our skin’s been golden and perfumed, at times with sourness,
but always here, soft and bold as the body of a Rubens.
JLM Morton is a poet based in rural Gloucestershire in the west of England. Her debut pamphlet Lake 32 is published by Yew Tree Press. In 2021, she is working as poet in residence for the Stroudwater Textile Trust, exploring the role of trade cloth in colonial expansion. Between demands from her kids for high calorie snacks and wrenching another toy from the jaws of the dog, she writes – often while cooking. For more info, see: www.jlmmorton.com
Emerge Literary Journal 