on occashionly looking yn th mirror + being okei w/it

          ro of faces in my iminding like instagrm tiles or lyke a leafi plant
                       groin qhwickly thruȝ myn empti livingroom
          faces wh do not speech 2me           w w y is it euer so silente

          i tchoke    open min mouth             a bulbe
          emerjes Lit + Gloin as a bonefire ofv childhoode botevaunt:
                                                  small ch ch chaires
                                                  peinted b boxen 4 dressin-up-clothes
                                                  chestes-ofv-drawers w/sticki                 sticky handels

                                                  O g o n up in flaumbe

                                                             g o n quwite utterli 2 furi + brillyanse

                          tho sins the room is empty
                       no1 cs this architecturel wondre!! ~ jst þs corpus of guts+<3 ~ smthng
                                      seemin-sedentery           ~ seemin-dour             yiet o
                                                   producin lioght       in brght ejeccioun
                                                               like an contente hen-chiccen
                                                                (sly w/hw hr bodi works w/in her)
                                                                    orr an endliss blu nebula

                                                               —both handes behinde her back—

                                                                               creates a *
                                                                               or an egge

                                                                              ta da


>          a stranger told me once my bodi was a rhenish bottle
          + i made the mistake

                       of believin them—

          ~stopt searching             these clutterd rooms for the furnace key
          ~let the glas cool til i was fixd

                       in this one repeating thought.

          but         n/t
          is ever


          not bodies nor college chapels     can stop th comin trnsfrmacioun\
          fleur-d-lis in stonework     flickers inne + ut ofv existence like life-in-trees

                       w/the cyclin light.

          u put down ur drink       listen rapt to sm whtsapp-frend          yet its only months later
          in ur amber bedroom         o sursaut

                       u hear their voice.

          a week ago i watchd the swifts mandala down to roost
          their inky bodies unzipping the sky o ten thousand

                       at a time

          + the marshes became heavy as a haunted corridor
          black + whisperin as treacl on the stove

                       w/their countless chosen beds.

          th world has shiftd             i thought then, which was true—
          kinda—the graviti of that unbridled plummet + swoon pulling the planet

                       some little way out of its align

          but it was also only bullshit wisdom/ how while i drove the hills
          to ur parents’ house ur brother wld ask u     r we just pretending

                       that everythings alright

          + how in the morning
          some ten ten thousand bodies would rise agen

                       as one.

Tamsin Blaxter is a poet, a historical linguist and a trans woman living in Cambridge, UK. Her research focuses on language use in medieval Norway, on Twitter, and in other strange places. Her poetry — well, you know what that’s about, since you’ve just read some of it. WEB   TWITTER