Her

I don’t need to look up and to my side to know
she’s there:

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 othersShe tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk. She edits Foxglove Journal.