Thursday, 11 August 2016

A poem by Amy Schreibman Walter

Continental Shifts

On a plane above Amsterdam, bodies tilt
towards land. A stranger in the seat next to me
spoons chocolate from a disposable cup, asks
if I like to cook. I might be domestically inclined.
Thinking of how I want to be making you dinner,
I am instead eating small salami sandwiches with my fingers,
I am instead sipping tomato juice from a plastic cup. I have
flown over the continent this week, flown in the dark over
metropolises all lit up. In these places, I don’t ever cook,
I eat with my hands, I drink local specialities. I want to cook
dinner for you in a kitchen I don’t have, want to shuffle
crockery out of cupboards, warm up soup on some stainless
steel hob. I am falling for you. The captain
says we should prepare for landing. Out the window
there is only the night sky, tinged with little lights.






Amy Schreibman Walter is an American writer living in London. Her poems have appeared in magazines on both sides of the Atlantic, and her new chapbook, ‘Houdini’s Wife and Other Women,’ was published by Dancing Girl Press this spring.

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