A new poem by Jonny Mahon-Heap.

Good Days

If the summer was breaking, they would be there for its rapture. It was in the buses screeching, letting skeins of schoolchildren scrabble their way across the pavements, which smelled of moss, piss, sickly-sweet gas. It was in the headlines screaming, fonts so large they seemed to will something supernova into existence. It was in their own screams, the shuddering pleasure of their tension, their muscles going taut from pleasure, the uncertain promise of release. It was in their steps, it was for everyone, and it was private too—they guarded it closely like a small flame. When it broke, their aloneness was left, lodged like an ice cube in their throats – a truth that was impassable, shocking, sore.

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are currently closed.