Language Decay

Friend, the cold is biting. I am waiting for your call
and the power is running low. Remember
Florence? When a bird landed on my shoulder—
easy as a tree branch. I turned away from the wind
so we both could rest. For three days after
I felt phantom talons by my neck,
remember calling you to tell the tale, and you—
shivering in London—saying perhaps he sensed
you were aching too. I’m clutching the phone to my ear
and listening to the static, the birds outside
panicking in the cold. They’re swarming at the windows,
in my throat, and if you have not yet heard it—
you will.

Charlotte Newbury is a queer poet from South East England. She likes witchcraft, ecofeminism and spider plants. You can find her (& her most recent publications) on Twitter @charnewbpoet.

Published January 15 2025