"Backwards" by Warsan Shire

for Saaid Shire

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;

that’s how we bring Dad back.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.

We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,

your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can write the poem and make it disappear.

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Maybe we’re okay kid?

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,

you won’t be able to see beyond it.

 

You won’t be able to see beyond it,

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.

Maybe we’re okay kid,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.

I can write the poem and make it disappear,

give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums

we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,

that’s how we bring Dad back.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

"Megan Married Herself" by Caroline Bird

She arrived at the country mansion in a silver limousine.

She’d sent out invitations and everything:

her name written twice with “&” in the middle,

the calligraphy of coupling.

She strode down the aisle to “At Last” by Etta James,

faced the celebrant like a keen soldier reporting for duty,

her voice shaky yet sure. I do. I do.

“You may now kiss the mirror.” Applause. Confetti.

Every single one of the hundred and forty guests

deemed the service “unimprovable.”

Especially the vows. So “from the heart.”

Her wedding gown was ivory; pointedly off-white,

“After all, we’ve shared a bed for thirty-two years,”

she quipped in her first speech,

“I’m hardly virginal if you know what I mean.”

(No one knew exactly what she meant.)

Not a soul questioned their devotion.

You only had to look at them. Hand cupped in hand.

Smiling out of the same eyes. You could sense

their secret language, bone-deep, blended blood.

Toasts were frequent, tearful. One guest

eyed his wife — hovering harmlessly at the bar — and

imagined what his life might’ve been if

he’d responded, years ago, to that offer in his head:

“I’m the only one who will ever truly understand you.

Marry me, Derek. I love you. Marry me.”

At the time, he hadn’t taken his proposal seriously.

He recharged his champagne flute, watched

the newlywed cut her five-tiered cake, both hands

on the knife. “Is it too late for us to try?” Derek whispered

to no one, as the bride glided herself onto the dance floor,

taking turns first to lead then follow.