Nine Whiskeys Later

Ava Watkins is in the final year of her Creative Writing and English degree.

This room thinks in angles.

The moon moves with the sound steel makes.

Folds over on itself.

Sends down blades of light.


With all these metal beams through the window,

I am no longer a girl

but a knife block.


At the door, you dip me back.

And if you were a statue,

I would wipe the pigeon shit off your shoulders

and sit at your toes.