Image: © Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester
Coffee
Once a currency of the colonial kings of the seas,
Captain.
This simple plant. It will grow and die and synthesise
So why, sir, is it stained? Men enslaved; families separated,
Killed.
Yet the brew drips, drips, drips,
Pooling at the bottom of the mug.
Who said gold doesn’t grow on trees?
As it sprouted, the brown beans, the leaves
Weren’t the only green growing,
Inflating,
Monopolising
She is on every block, in every corner shop, copied and pasted,
Introducing the Skinny White Mocha Frapp™
(With a shot of originality.)
Now, our fingers interlocked through woollen gloves, we wander
Through museum halls, ‘Just two lattes, please.’ Keep it easy,
Classic.
Warmth in either hand, we discover dim-lit burrows in a busy city.
The price, the visit, the coffee and the company, all, at last, good.
Pencil
I trace the curves of her skin as she sits on marble museum stairs
swirling the lead in rings for her chestnut curls, as the coils fall upon her shoulder.
Her beauty captured on parchment in tones of granite grey, she doesn’t care
that the charcoal smudges on my hands stain her cream cardigan as I hold her.
I draft poems in notebooks she has bought me for every Christmas and birthday,
accompanied with small illustrations of towns we visited, and cocktails shared.
Writing poems in a café in small countryside villages, I know, a wannabe Wilde,
but for the way she makes me feel I could never have been prepared.
I sketch blueprints for kitchen tables and shelves she wants for our future house,
as soon as the deposit is paid, I’ll take a measuring tape and pencil to every wall.
Outlining our future together, soon I’ll draw her as my spouse, and-
when I’ve figured out the dimensions, these floors will be where our child learns to crawl.
Sugar
Coca Cola sweet on my tongue,
burning my sinuses as it circulates,
fizzing against my teeth so young,
with little bumps running along the top.
A sandwich bag half full of white snow,
pinned to the display board to teach
children what they ought to know.
but sugar isn’t the worst powder in clear bags.
If only they had that in their video tapes,
I could use my bank card, house keys and £10 notes
without my heat racing at simple shapes
with a sharp edge atop a mirror under a table lamp.
Nosebleeds beg a pocket full of Kleenex,
and a lot of lying about this ‘cold you can’t shake.’
I might not remember the crack den sex,
But I can eyeball five grams on instinct.
Sleeping for too long then not at all,
I’ve heard of hyper kids at trampoline parks,
the blue smartie effect at junior football,
but e-numbers and slush puppies don’t rival my sugar rush.
____
After studying Literature and Creative Writing at Lancaster University, tutored by Paul Farley and Eoghan Walls, Ami started her Masters at Manchester Metropolitan University. Here she met huge inspirations of hers such as Helen Mort, Kim Moore, and Carol Ann Duffy, who have inspired her to challenge herself and her writing as she prepares her debut collection, ‘Pantry.’ This collection is centred around the domestic sphere, paying close attention to those which appear mundane, but earn a deeper focus into their historical, social, and personal significance.