Sarah Davies 2 poems

An education

To the boy at the back who shouted out ‘vagina’
when class was decoding anagrams
of well known terms in economic theory
(it looked just like another word, you claimed)-

thank you- like they say, this is a teachable moment
And yes, you could have used worse names
for the miracle that blooms etcetera etcetera-
no, sorry, no poetic language, euphemisms here

And yes, one of these other terms
might begin with c and end in t,
traditional Anglo Saxon
fashioned into insult

Maybe you didn’t really mean to offend
and yes, you could have shouted out
many other nicknames
(but aren’t nicknames fond?)

It’s easy to mistake one word for another-
Vulva for evolving
Pudenda for impudent
Labia for libellous

And I’m not discriminating –
anyone found scrawling
a penis on the bathroom wall
will be asked for further latin

We will dissect the illustration
as if it were textbook masculinity,
each part arrowed and footnoted,
like labelling a delicate and fragile flower


The Four Bears

Let me tell you a story, a mystery, but a forest mystery

Let me tell you a fairytale about a story I heard or saw,

or scrolled across, while browsing –


that YouTube video of three young bears dancing in a circle in the forest,

white fur shawls about their necks,


each one with a different look- one smiling, one biting, one growling

each grasping, holding, (if you can say that without sounding anthropomorphic),


the paw of the other- brothers, comrades, magic raisers- 

one stamp, one tread, one skip


And if they moved, counter or clockwise,

it might be a celebration and a summoning


I’m writing this with daisies, because it’s never been written before

Someone had commented online- sinister, yet adorable


Who knew, behind the tree, 

the mother stirred and grew as big as legend? 


Who knew, behind the tree,

the mother with her berry mouth, her honey paws, would stand tall as a taller man?


And what happened to the observer with a phone who interrupted this small ritual,

a man connected to everything but quite alone


in the clearing where the Sun was pierced by pine trees

and the day stank of scat, damp fur and magic?


Who knows the spell that goes like this,

the one that holds and calms the dancers-


Ursa Major, Ursa Minor,

The wild, the green forever?

About the contributor

Sarah Davies has been writing from childhood, with gaps for life stuff. She has been published in magazines such as The Rialto, Magma, Iota, the Blue Nib, Obsessed with Pipework, Ink, Sweat and Tears, and the Interpreter's House. She is always 'working on a collection'- and has finally done it.

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