Megan James
Tous les jours they work in a cycle, here at nine, gone by seven, leaving with the sun. Sleep does not come here, but somewhere else, somewhere yellow, soft. Each brazen day, they make a pilgrimage to occupy the same small space, tracing the city with grey vagrant eyes; an almost commute. Now two void & scratched statistics-- but they were children once, wearing clean skin. At home, warmer, farther. Somewhere they must be missed.
+
there are mirrors on the streets
how would you have your hair
if you weren’t homeless?
damp dank choke of rope
long
and as blonde as it once was
when it hung
twinned plaited
frayed at the ends - -
now
there is dread
in those locks
you are split
between
styles
shearing it clean
or
letting it matt at the back
of the neck
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We don’t exchange sounds. This is not their language; this is not my language. We offer smiles, inedible, unquenchable. They must imagine me somewhere yellow, soft, with envy.
+
She huddles in that dirty purple blanket, sometimes they share it, pressed against each other, wringing out the warmth. They take shifts to watch suitcases, split baguettes.
+
paper cups
weighed down
like the ponts
under padlocks,
in the faded
rainbow corner
of the carriage,
under vacant
plastic awnings/
soggy canvas,
open-mouthed
dry-tongued
dusty-voiced,
soured earth,
bin juice &
matted cloth,
outstretched hands,
bowl-empty, asking
to be pulled up
+
Today, it snowed. Her purple blanket peppered white. When are their birthdays? I think about this often.
+
‘J’ai faim,’ he said. ‘J’ai besoin de manger,’ he said. ‘Pardon,’ I said. ‘Je suis anglaise,’ I said. He put a hand to his mouth, mimed eating. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Food,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
+
We could be friends, but there is a home between us, that, & the slick matter of tongues.
+
+
there are mirrors on the streets
how would you have your hair
if you weren’t homeless?
damp dank choke of rope
long
and as blonde as it once was
when it hung
twinned plaited
frayed at the ends - -
now
there is dread
in those locks
you are split
between
styles
shearing it clean
or
letting it matt at the back
of the neck
+
We don’t exchange sounds. This is not their language; this is not my language. We offer smiles, inedible, unquenchable. They must imagine me somewhere yellow, soft, with envy.
+
She huddles in that dirty purple blanket, sometimes they share it, pressed against each other, wringing out the warmth. They take shifts to watch suitcases, split baguettes.
+
paper cups
weighed down
like the ponts
under padlocks,
in the faded
rainbow corner
of the carriage,
under vacant
plastic awnings/
soggy canvas,
open-mouthed
dry-tongued
dusty-voiced,
soured earth,
bin juice &
matted cloth,
outstretched hands,
bowl-empty, asking
to be pulled up
+
Today, it snowed. Her purple blanket peppered white. When are their birthdays? I think about this often.
+
‘J’ai faim,’ he said. ‘J’ai besoin de manger,’ he said. ‘Pardon,’ I said. ‘Je suis anglaise,’ I said. He put a hand to his mouth, mimed eating. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Food,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
+
We could be friends, but there is a home between us, that, & the slick matter of tongues.
+
© Copyright Megan James 2019
Megan James graduated from the University of Exeter in 2018 where she studied a BA in English. She is currently undertaking a Creative Writing MA at the University of Kent's Paris School of Arts and Culture, specialising in poetry. Her work predominantly focuses on issues surrounding the female medical body, drawing on both feminist and medical research and her personal experience as a sufferer of chronic illness. Her poetry is upcoming in Eunoia Review, Projector magazine and The Hellebore, and has been shortlisted for the Creative Ink Writing Competition.
