You long for the sea
but the city calls you, drunk
at 7am.

You kiss a girl with
a monarch mouth, lips lilac,
wings a soft letter.

You feel glaring lights
on skin, dizzy-tired, wishing
hard for the sunset.

You watch the towers,
tuxedo-taped, choking on
their Paco Rabanne.

You listen to rain
gulping pavements like waves,
reminds you of home.

You pray for lightning
when a sly insect lands, creeps
between still, bare thighs.

You say night, driver.
Step into the street, tarmac
dull sand underfoot.

Beth Barker is a writer from coastal Blackpool and is now studying English Literature in Manchester. Her work is interested in class, women’s experiences and our human desire to find a place to call home. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading work from contemporary Northern writers and creating zines about literary culture.