I live in my hometown (not a hundred metres from where)


A flower called SELFHEAL, in Latin
begins GROSSE, meaning course. All afternoons:
cross-legged, elbows crushing, blood cut
off from that point down. Sticky implements
snicking vintage lithographs and silenced pistols from graphic

novels. It turns out I write books
by cutting them up. Unforgetting sexual molestations
is done with long-lost Zooper
Dooper scissors. Plum flowers from 1955

on a finger-dragged, white wall
some feet from Cruelty’s yard. 
When I grow up, I’ll take to chalking the drive

like the last time I saw her face / privates. 
By the time I’m ready to die 

SNOWBELLED   BUCKTHORNED   SELFHEALED
you’ll be able to purchase me in markets, right by
basil descended from my mother’s second crop
and slim bouquets of Fife-gathered FORGET ME NOTS.

Emma Simington

Emma Simington is a poet living on unceded Yugambeh country. Her words can be found between the pages of The Moth Magazine and Australian Poetry. She has shortlisted for the Helen Ann Bell Poetry Bequest Award and the Thomas Shapcott Prize. Emma loves women, coffee and lemon pepper tuna. It is proud to be neurodivergent and transgender.

More by Emma Simington ›

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