I Didn’t Know The Fires Were Cold

  The Cobbles Outside Brasenose College You are the rainbow sheen of the ink from a black ballpoint pen  laid out on the paper. I am the light from the torch that dances  off falling drops of rain.  They look like snowflakes except not as cold. And not as beautiful. You are the majesty of the night that sits around  the shoulders of buildings. I am the crumbling  of sandstone beneath fingertips. You are the crisp white fibres of a cotton shirt lined up like soldiers waiting to go home. I am the breeze that slips in between cardigans: the breach in the barrier that cannot be identified.  Least of all by me; and it is my body. You are a degree, a title.  Enshrined in the historic register of  wasted days. I am all the books you didn't read but should have done. —————— This is the first poem I wrote in Oxford. It’s based on a series of conversations I had with a friend, about our preconceptions of Oxford and the r...

Here is the key to my heart that I clench between my knuckles when I’m walking down alleys at night.   My heart stands alone beneath the street lamps wears a winter coat does not shake your hand. Does not give you directions. Does not give you it’s name because haven’t we all found crushed fairies at the foot of our bed and said nothing? Haven’t we all said goodnight to our dreams?   Here is the key to my heart that I left in my foster carer’s door latch when I was fourteen when home was the cavity inside my chest when home was the broken space between dawn and silence. I told my carer I’d fallen and cut myself. She bemoaned my muddy jeans.   Here is the key to my heart that I used to flip open the lock when my little sister was stuck in the bathroom.   Here is the key to the lock.   It is yours now. _______ I wrote this poem four years ago and forgot about it. I wrote the first verse again, without rememberi...