That night, with thirty-nine degrees stoking my brain,
I heard a seagull in the dialysis machine opposite –
it cried to be released, over and over.
Salt sweat on my lips, the breeze from the window
and that aching call. I was crawling along a beach
chewing pebbles, sand-sore knees,
not looking up to see the gull twisting free into wounded air.
The drip in my arm ticked, telling me I was in Mexico
unearthing a piñata amongst the washed up bottles,
uncoiling ropes – the clownfish piñata I made five years ago.
Digging it out of my memory with a bright red spade.
Black and orange fish. Nemo. Feel the strength of paper-mâché,
how hard it is to break. And all the while that damn gull squawking
as I dragged myself up to a plastic lounger with a plastic pillow,
tide-drenched. And here another syringe of penicillin –
slight sting – then, cool as a cocktail, Tequila Sunrise in my vein.

Dearest reader! Our newsletter!

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest content, freebies, news and competition updates, right to your inbox. From the oldest literary periodical in the UK.

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.
SUBSCRIBE