Wolf Moon
By Zoë Davis
In barking twilight
when sugared moon snaps at cooling earth
we retract our peanut brittle claws
wipe sticky hands upon our thighs
become stuck on one another
tunnel mouths
butt teeth
as if every word must be a clash
of something mutely wicked
I do not know you
in the morning hours
soft of breath and heart
as hands that once forged crimes
repent against these stolen territories
the past can all but gum and drool
as we turn and curl and bow
lollipop eyes already suck’d
forgiveness a baptismal lick
across a sweating brow.
heartfell
By Zoë Davis
Indifferent city lights and the heartfell. Calm suitcase unboxing and the heartfell. The fight
was gone and the heartfell. No more yearning, just sober understanding.
Rain knocks vampiric on glossy window. Ten floors up I remain ungrounded. Midnight
strikes and the heartfell. Joy bites my neck. I believe I need it. Nose to ceiling. Heart and
feather balance each hand. Soul a pivot. I wait for crocodiles in the bath.
Days pass like tea. Brown, tepid dreams. I take a drag from the aircon, make forts of
cardboard, scrub psalms on kitchen grout. When days chrysalise into weeks without you, the
heartfell settles gently into place, like a sky worn bird. Raven before dove, chest an
ark of scarce creatures.
When I reach dry land, I will set them free.
Zoë Davis
Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. She’s a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can’t do by playing wheelchair rugby league. She writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she’s always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.
Photo credit: Олег Мороз
Apricot Press 