03:12
Libby Harris

Vertical movement, jade lustre,
The hummingbird presents itself.

(does it feel a tension against the soil                                                                                        heady
pulsing up and through those inches from which it shies away?)

You send me a voice message from a whitewashed single room in Manchester,
Your words blunt against my intestines.

(here, the vowels lengthen beneath the sun, javelins barely grazing my shoulders)

I’d forgotten the rasp of the Sainsbury’s checkout, the heavily insulated stars, the streetlights leaking
Tangerine into grainless, faceless, English, pavements.

​How can I range my pride
Each                                                    Pacific                                                                                  morning
When I can press my hip bones to the earth

Beneath a magnolia which won’t blossom for you for months?

The hummingbird flashes in parallel lines.

Libby Harris will incessantly ask if what she just said is a 'Briticism'.