Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010

Hors d'œuvre

by Antonia Kirby

Let me recoil, regress
to a time where size and shape were
just words with inconceivable phonemes -
a tangled mess
by which to weave a sentence. Sunmaid
and milk to tempt a hungry pit,,
from playing in the snow to working up a thirst
for my next feed..
Would I rather waste away now?
Perhaps I would, rather than tenderly
pawing at tiny morsels
wondering where and how
the weight will emerge; Upon my hips?
Or waist? Or thighs?
Looks so good, and with a stretch
is at the mercy of my wanton fingertips…
To have your thoughts drowned
in numbers, inches, weights and measures,
in their simplest form,
makes the blood sour and hounds
the senses. Save
me from his sad existence please.
Come, end, come…
or let the worries waive
to one last bite.

Added: 19.04.2010

Judges' comments on this poem


Very sad but a lovely fluid feeling, the words flow to create some precise images.