Dandelions
by Emma Atkins
She plucks the dandelion from its bed,
purses her lips and spits
a glob of orange-squash breath.
Fairies are loosened, take flight across the garden,
but summer is stagnant –
few go no further than the tip of her finger:
legs twitching, gasping like fish, wings spittle-wet
stuck fast despite her waggling.
She frowns, pinches forefinger and thumb
until each one bursts like a cranberry –
leaves a smear of orange blood.
Far away, Peter Pan awakens from a nightmare,
knowing in his ageless bones,
there are children worse than non-believers.
Previously published in Drawn to the Light Press
Hallowed Birthday
your birthday is approaching
the days are shortening
evenings darkening and darkening
the closer
we get to all hallows eve
and the birth of our very own goth jesus
almost
you were a day early, born to the dawn
blood-red to warn the shepherds
that the horseman would be riding soon
born so close to transylvania,
the vampires must’ve been salivating
now they’re used as wrapping
as I mummify your gift with black tissue paper
and set it in a bag printed with bats
ready
Previously published in Drawn to the Light Press
Mild November
How short is human memory
for me to be sitting watching lively bees
dip in and out of fuchsia heads,
which by Nature’s law should be dead,
and think: this is the mildest November I’ve ever seen?
This month, we saw storms A through D,
which flooded homes up and down the country,
bloated rivers above their banks and stopped the trains.
Days of nothing but pouring rain,
but not enough, it seems, to stop November bees.
Previously published in Hive Poetry Journal
BIO
Emma Atkins is a poet, short story writer and novelist with a PhD in experimental fiction. Her poetry is featured in The Stony Thursday Poetry Book, Amsterdam Quarterly, The Stripes Literary Magazine and others. Her flash fiction is featured in Blood+Honey, The Argyle, Chaotic Merge and others. You can find her writing here: emmapaigeatkins.co.uk
