at night I put away my hooves
from the dancing and pray to a lover
I have no proof still exists. this bed
is like a disappearing decade, popped
highlights and forgotten intricacies.
all this turbulent knowledge maintained
at the pillow, the sheets like floods of vessels,
counterpoint & collection. this bed,
a cage of potential mothers on
unemployment’s precipice. denial is a race.
I close my eyes, and still see the terraced
knees of judgement. stay, my love said.
and what did I do but flee?
S.K. Grout grew up in New Zealand, has lived in Germany and now splits her time as best she can between London and Auckland. She is the author of the micro chapbook to be female is to be interrogated (2018, the poetry annals). Her work also appears in Crannóg, Landfall, The Interpreter’s House, Banshee Lit, Parentheses Journal and elsewhere. Wanderlust, eco-living, social justice, queer love stories and writing remain priorities of her life. These topics fill most of her twittering at @indeskidge.