I know the sea is deep
& the shoreline keens & punches. Above me cops
trawl for clues. They find matchbooks at the cliff edge,
beat up Converse jilted in the heather.
Give em what they need, keep what you know.
I know your height, your street, my fingers shake,
you hated sports & liars & not being high. Limbs
loud like mixtapes, we grabbed fistfulls of skin at recess,
rolled your cigarettes, wore your jeans slung low
for late night dares, your eyes on me when you said yes
to the roiling kick & the depths of rooftop jumps
landing hard on concrete, wishing it were beach soft.
Gulls nudge & shriek as they wheel out the gurney,
your feet twisted under polythene. The papers said
we climbed too far, that accidents happen.
But I was up there with you, like before.
I know you removed your shoes,
that your blond hair flew like a slap.
Rebecca Faulkner is a London-born children’s rights advocate, climate activist, and poet. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in various publications, including Smoke Magazine, The Maine Review, On the Seawall, Into the Void, and Passengers Journal. Her work features in the Best New British and Irish Poets Anthology 2019-2021. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
