TWO POEMS — Miriam Gauntlett

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

you can’t plan on the heart


on my run, someone
collides with me, knocks
my glasses clean off.

without them, the world
dissolves into a
landscape of infinite possibility;

any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.


on my way home, the sky is
heavy with unspilled rain –

nothing, not even people,
is as unpredictable as the weather.

a bunch of starlings is blown past
by the wind, winging their way across the grey,

and I toss my heart upwards to the sky,
calling out to it: be brave, be brave, be brave.


you turned my stomach into a magma chamber

after you left, I began to vomit up stones.
about the size of an egg,
they were rough enough
to scratch a fingertip but
smooth enough to roll
in the palm.

mostly they were pinkish-grey;
some had thin white veins
shooting through. a friend of
mine noticed them once
on the windowsill, and exclaimed
over the perfection of the crystals.

eventually, I moved them
outside to use as borders for
my plant beds, marking the
edges of where things were
allowed to grow and
where they were not.


Miriam Gauntlett studies, works & writes in London. Her work has recently appeared in Porridge Magazine and Dear Damsels. She can usually be found reading, dreaming of her next outdoor adventure or tweeting @miriaaaaamg

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