tooth marks on my skin, I did not
recognise the hunger. Your neck blue,
my eyes sweat. Now alone
I see men on the street crowned
with my teeth. If they smell me, am I
sweet? Barely breathing, I turn my head
like a magnet around magnets.
Leaving a loved one is shedding dead skin
in a nest, food ready for cockroaches.
Try to say love now. Write love. Rhyme
love. Look at the word and its reflection
a thousand times, until it's unfamiliar. Look
at a wing until it leaves the magpie. By the way,
I believed bitemarks to be a blessing.
I will not fly back to leave love at your
doorstep, but I’ll bring a wing and broken eggshells
to rebuild me. The latter for my left eye,
the wing for tongue. But not love, trapped
in your mouth, flapping to escape.
From the eggshells, birds’ eyes roll on my cheeks,
converge like blood marks to my feet.
Luca Fois is a poet living in Edinburgh, in the liminal space between languages. He loves poetry, writing, and vibing with the chaos and the weird in his life. You can find him in a local café thinking about the right word to end a line, but also lurking on X @cuttinghail. Lately, he's obsessed with death and relationships. Other of his works have appeared on Streetcake Magazine, Tiny Wren Lit, Corvus Review, Black Stone/White Stone and Spark to flame.