by Clare Walker

When I was little,
I had as little need for words
as a plankton or a shrimp
My wordless song
echoed through the blue

They still call me little,
my voice torn out --
a bloody eel.
My larynx hardens to coral.
My lips flake into scales.

These people use fillet knives,
with no song.
Someday they'll build a statue
little and sweet.

That's not me.

I am a white domed temple
with whales' song
My ribcage a cathedral
Its walls kissed to brightness
by a thousand pilgrims.

Clare Walker lives in Yorkshire where she is training to be a librarian. She enjoys blackberries picked just before Michaelmas.

Her poetry can be found in Les Bonnes Fees, Astropoetica and Goblin Fruit.

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