THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Hope diminishes like the image of a loving pot plant in driving distance,
one that grew in nurture drains and nitrogen rains,
smaller and smaller until a dot and then a vanish.
Just like that, hush.

Shouldn't I be protecting it, loving it,
holding it to my chest in aggressive need,
like the last ever heave of breath?
Shouldn't I be saving it
even in the mirage of its vague existence?
Shouldn't I be singing its praises,
of joy and triumph and delight and victory?
I try to speak, but vacuum stays for me,
I try to lean, but no shoulder holds me,
I try to stay, but ruined roots grace my ground,
I try...I tried, amidst frowned and ignored.

Ah, the butterflies are still now,
them who never stopped flying, in blush and ambition-
who never stopped;
tight grasps to the details of slow flutters and iridescent breathing wings,
the butterflies are still now,
resting, life slowly growing back into them,
caterpillars again, to feel more and
maybe to wake up to the sight of their pretty pot plant,
one they will grow in nurture drains and nitrogen rains.