Phoebe Buckley

Glory Dirt

Folding laundry will be the last thing.
I’ll never work out how to square a fitted sheet, instead, do as I’ve always done—wind it round
my arms the way crabs pull red taffy & shove it somewhere lost.

I’ll banana the elastic wings of my ankle socks into a backwards chrysalis, our washing machine
stitching me into you, your clothes, my strands of hair, spun to a golden Spirograph knot,
orbital, atomic. The ghost of me will live spinning in its cheese grater drum
even when you move
away from my possessions and your heartbreak.

You will no longer be able to organise your life
into neat piles, dig your fingers into the glory dirt—dock froth, clinging on to condoms, bottles,
seaweed & birdshit
you’ll tell yourself it’s enjoyable like the smell of a room
after fucking—hot, clean, happy sweat
but it’s nothing like that, you no longer have your lover.

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Phoebe Buckley (she/her) is a UK poet living in South London with her partner. She works as an executive project assistant for an arts association in Brixton and runs a monthly poetry reading collective in New Cross. She is set to continue her higher education with an MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths University of London this year.