Poem
I know where you are,
poem. The language that folds itself
around my tongue, a parasite of ivy
on the oak tree. The waves that lick the shore
of old Cagnes; grains of me
disappearing, eroding
back into salt, hardening
to shell. Je me suis perdu.
You, poem, are that rippled surface.
The brine of the olive that echoes
on my lips, too faint
to be tasted. The hands of a mother
that hold my throat and prevent me
from speaking. You are there
but where are you here,
poem? Where are you, when I ask you
qui je suis pour toi?
Elodie Rose Barnes is an author and photographer. She can be found between Paris, Spain and the UK (usually mixing up her languages) while her words live in places such as Amethyst Review, Clover & White and Neologism Poetry Journal. She is guest editor of the Life in Languages series at Lucy Writers’ Platform. Find her online at http://elodierosebarnes.weebly.com and on Twitter here: @BarnesElodie.