The neighbour’s toddler is under our table fists and feet flailing, my mother’s spine glacial, and I’m sat on the banquette eating kedgeree, fish flying around my head in a halo. Mountains are crowbarred out of me when we root up to another country, I shelter under the bed, years pass through me, the candlewick hides me, the frame the only thing holding me, the slats sag with the weight of the mattress over me, my eyes have a heart, its tears stain the boards, the heels of my hands press into the floor, nowhere is safe. A toddler wriggles under a low-slung armchair, she’s rehearsing her birth, Pull me out, I’m stuck. There’s always a child under a table, under the bed, under a chair, under the rubble.
2nd place, Poetry London Prize 2025, judged by Victoria Kennifick