by Rox Kashun
curled into a corner, i forget i have skin,
hidden by blankets and winter socks.
the great british summertime; grey and wet.
in the aftermath of mania, i am reborn
and must parent myself once more –
slow wriggles out of bed and ice cold showers,
a brutal reminder i have a body.
tentative walks outside begin again.
an accidental purchase – sunflowers.
too tall. too bright. too much.
not pretty like a rose or soft like a tulip.
and yet as i watch them – unmovable, defiant –
petals desperate as they stretch out to jupiter,
i wonder if i, too, can grow.
ah, yes. i would like to be a sunflower,
tiptoeing my way to heaven.
Rox Kashun is a queer poet. They are based in the South of England. They explore themes of awkward love, living in the margins and break-ups of all kinds in their writing.
Emerge Literary Journal 