I’ve got a poem half written
like I’ve got a new lover
and I don’t want to say who he is
yet.

Wherever it is, the poem is the centre
of the room. All the time
I am making the bed, going for a jog,
taking a shower,
the poem rings.

Can it wait? What’ll I say?
A thin flame runs up my legs.

On the bus I think of other poems.
Now I have six half-written.
I am a slut
with petrol in my hair.

*

Rachel McAlpine