dad tells the story: ohio deepwood, him and his brother

little league helmet-clad, tossing stones into the inky sky

until a bat, gravity-lashed, swoops down in their wake,

thinking the ordinary shapes horseflies or sweat bees or hawk

moths, and yes, i can imagine the thrill when the whip

of wind cracked past their necks, when the promised pain

just missed, but i still have a gnawing sort of pity for any

other creature who darts towards the first shrouded wonder

moving in the dark, who throws its whole self at hunger without

fear of breaking teeth, who hopes the wonder might keep it

alive, who doesn't know, or hasn't considered, that every frantic

shadow exists only to watch something want.

bloodsucker

the problem with other people

is that one must leave before the other

and one always gets there first. words

left in my notes app when I was too eager

and soon: hoax, lonely drum, I'm

only typing this to look wanted,

but you and I once discovered

we had arrived on opposite ends

of the same damned train, and when

the day became a grey-blue smolder

but appetite still flashed its barb

one of us said, well, why can't we

just stay? and how obvious it felt to stay,

our common history as new and bright

as a bulb. this is the decision, to know

you and keep knowing – us orbs framed

in the yellow second story window

like displaced moons who've found

the other in the same foreign orbit,

who meet and continue to meet

even after all the easy words have gone.

no maybe the ugliest hours shouldn't host

miracles but still they go on hosting for example

this all happened while i was fumbling around

in the unnatural morning like a nocturnal

animal and you don't have to believe me

i wouldn't believe me but on the way home

the seagulls were laughing like kids

and i tipped my head to the day-moon which hung

translucent with a projection's non-reality against

a sky so blue my teeth chattered and when i lay

face down beside the brook i swore

the earth flexed against my belly a degree

of a degree of a degree of a degree of a

crucial degree

enough

Hey! Closer Baby Closer comes out on February 14th.

photo by Alfredo Guzman

Savannah Brown is an American writer and poet based in London. She’s the author of two novels (Penguin Random UK) and two poetry collections with a third, Closer Baby Closer, forthcoming in 2023. Her work deals with themes of existence, vulnerability and intimacy in the digital age. i-D called her 'the poet articulating your deepest existential fears'. Savannah oversees Escapril, a poetry challenge where participants are tasked with writing a poem every day in April. She also founded and runs Doomsday Press.

Savannah has acted as a judge for the National Poetry Day competition and as patron for the Foyle Young Poets Prize.

For film and TV rights: Richard Pike at C&W

For events and publicity related to my novels: Louise Dickie at Penguin Random House UK

For performances, events and publicity related to my poetry, and pretty much everything else: savbrownpoetry@gmail.com