I don’t need to look up and to my side to know
ruby, scalloped out from a rocky cliff,
too hot to touch.
There are glow-worms outside, I know
and fireflies, bats
but the time of freedom seems so far
away it’s irrelevant.
Whatever may happen at the end, for
now and for an
hour or two or more, there is her and me
and nothing changes
that hour or two or more. The air is cool
somewhere in the
world, but here it is charged. Here she is,
face just the same,
teasing me, like a bee, a remnant of the
day. Does she
not realise it is night-time now? Be a
moth by all means.
Be a star. Now that would be something
easy to call her
but she is not. She does more than emit,
pulsate. So much
more. She is fiddly, so many little parts
all moving in unison,
like a ladybird’s tiny, perfect legs beneath
a red shell. Like
a clock. Paley said God must be real as
the world is too
complex to be here by chance. I have no
time for that until
the moments I look around and remember
she is alive.
ELIZABETH GIBSON is a Masters student at the University of Manchester. Her work has appeared in The Cadaverine, London Journal of Fiction, Gigantic Sequins, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Sea Foam Mag, The Rising Phoenix Review, and Firefly Magazine, among others. She tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk. She edits Foxglove Journal.