FROM APRIL/MAY 2021 ISSUE OF WEST END PHOENIX

Natural magnet, every facet of me
glides indoors, hands waiting for a cold, wet
glass. At any evening, I watch the mouths
of patrons, space conscious
between brick and market woodland.
Fingers through mine, a lover creates a
phylogeny of artists, a history
made exposed and intimate
through purpled conflict;
in a corner, two friends dovetail,
eyes moon-wide over suspect revelation.

I come here with my people,
when we yearned for unintentional
backstage, our bodies darkened and freed
under noise, but I don’t long for proximity.
I long for a cinematic affair,
four pairs of legs under a table,
language smoking, twilight wrapped
round our necks.

Archive everything!
When I alighted for the last time,
I was too late. I drank and drank
and watched the walls ghosten,
story folding at the waist,
into night, into myth.

⇒ Read more stories in our series about Kensington Market