Daphne

It was enough, I thought, 

to shroud myself in scabbed bleak bark,

let my leaves turn leathery, weather-loved 

where the river would smooth; my face

inscrutable, fruits black and tasting of dirt.

It was easy at first. Gather branches, drag, 

and stare blank ahead. Cashiers gawped 

as I snagged handbags, snared diamonds in flight. 

Once I hit someone – forgetting – a turn too quick. Just a kid;

but I showed no pity. 

Success! No man could ever love

this mossy mess! But as the days ebbed 

and clouded, pondscum-dark, my leaves

stayed green. My twig fingers, grappling hooks 

for my own throat, dredged dank maggot-rot from within. 

Doctors shrugged, and singsong citalopram

swam through my roots. I took up yoga

‘til one day I snapped. I prayed to Dad: 

yearned for my leaves to turn leaden, drop

like little arrows and pierce the hearts 

of those who’d lauded me, hoarded my winter

for themselves. Let me be bones. Let me gorge on them

and spit out their stones. See if they love me 

when they are mulch and I bloom. Spring: spoon-fed

by their decay. Just you wait.

Ex-Stasis

In sweat glint, hot flick

  battery-lick of tongues I forget; 

    with palpable sizzle bellies press,

        share cells until the roll consumes us. 

      With your milk-spill skin on mine 

    and the gasp of flesh I’ve never

  been farther from myself, and the rest

is bliss. I shift a hand 

  at the vellum small of your back

    and leave no dent – throw

      my head – madcap girl,

        I am the steam from the tea you bring,

          the cling-mist at the window;

        I am the garden draught, the path 

      of the dragonfly. I breathe 

    the space between seasons; 

  waltz orbits of stars to applause, 

galactical acrobat; I am

Imogen Cooper is 24 and lives in Shropshire, England. She is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham. Her work can also be found in The Kindling Journal and The Giving Room Review.