Poetry

Wide open spaces

Brittle voices between the real and the words
like greaseproof paper that’s caught at the edges.
Shivers across the hills and in the city
restless breaths that snag
on a story that will never be yours.
The wind’s piling high, sighing in the gaps, bruising.
We can’t all go back.
There’s a limit to how fast your feet can go
prickling like heat underneath fingernails,
the bottom of your heart is wide open, sinking, spent.

Matilda Webb