Barnstorm

Short

A poem by Chimene Suleyman

22nd June 2015

It was a chip. A simple french-fry
spread in ketchup and mayonnaise,

revealing itself on a traffic-island
opposite the dry-cleaners. Wings pulled -

lowering to ground, it assessed
a simple strip of potato.

I have never liked gulls. Wing-span
the length of seizing arms;

looping the circumference of my
scalp. It would take what it wanted:

a chip; my mind. Poker-face -
it circled for death.


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