Writer, Poet
[originally published by Burnt Pine Magazine, no. 5, 28.02.2019]
Do you remember when we set the campfire in the summer? The six of us, too much cider, and I was the stranger amongst old friends because I’d barely left the city lights and everything was alien. The fire was all smoke, and heat we didn’t need in the still-bright sun, but we were celebrating new starts, the end of the season.
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[originally published by Kamena, vol. 1, no. 5, 23.02.2019]
The train took me alone down south to meet you. You were already there at the station as I stepped onto the platform, and it was almost—but not quite—like I never left. All the force as you hugged me, so I nearly overbalanced with the weight from my backpack, but you anchored my feet to the ground and I knew I was safe.
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[originally published by Haringey Unchained, vol. 2, 15.02.2017]
My eyes look so blue in this mirror, oceanic almost, and I wonder if it’s through these tides that his lunar gravity rules over me, or if it’s from the saltwater that makes rivers down my ripped up rain face, flooding over, banks breaking onto my cheeks. The drought of his absence dries all the water up, so I become the surface of another moon.
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Katie L James 