On the weekend Biden wins the election
I find it hard to feel anything at all.
I shed a wee tear for the celebrations in Ireland,
Ballina and Mary Robinson, leave the house to buy lemons.
Even in Berlin the mood is lighter,
People gather in her parks, buy her bread.
Blonde, brunette, redheaded couples twinkle
in the changing light, maple leaves underfoot
as I finger the yellow net around my lemons
and think about his hands in my hair two nights ago,
how I was left unsure on my long walk home
but now, wonder where he is. What he’s thinking,
in English or in French. Wonder if his hair
is parted to the right or to the left.
Any poem can be a love poem,
and most poems, indeed, consist of longing,
subsist on lack, not relief; no different am I.
Send me a good man so I can show him the door.
I Am a Fish
The warm morning after I drink four
large Pilsners, I gulp cold water till it spills
over my chin, just resist dipping my head
under the spout, nesting in the blue bowl
of porcelain, while everything around me
is golden— golden, yellow, golden, shining!
Fall has struck me again in the street and I cannot
make a step, nor breathe, for fear of rustling.
I suspect my father spent many days with his head in the sink—
and just like that my taps are open, flowing,
restless, golden, loner: destined to love him,
or to love like him. Leaf and tree. School of fish.
Swimming with the stream. One and the same.
Demi Anter is a writer and performer originally from California, now based between London and Berlin. She has been a featured poet at Glastonbury Festival, Bristol Old Vic, the Scottish Storytelling Centre and Poetry Ireland. Her written work has been published by Magma, Mojo, Porter House Review and Ninth Letter, among others. Her debut poetry collection, Small Machine, is forthcoming from Write Bloody UK in April, 2022.