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We Are Trying To Make An Island

Georgie Barnett

Autumn, 2022

With slightly yellowing sheets – untucked like we couldn’t be bothered – or like the lapping 

Edges of shores all loose and kind of erotic, kind of see-through in spots, a kind of puddle. 


A small, coin-sized, leaf-shaped blood-stain coppered to the left-hand-side is evidence 

Of our labour, of how hard we are trying to make this thing together. How much we want it. 


My belly remains a horizon line. His head furrows where the sun sits, the sky is darker there. 

As he digs us our shelter in ivories, a hot-light beams from the curtain-gap. It skewers the island, 


And the back of his neck and my inner thighs turn golden. We are trying to make an island, 

Using our waters – a spit-of-land between us – to keep us afloat, little dinghy bobbing in the blue, 


Much like his head. His mouth won’t let me lose any water to the edge, so, we stay full, 

I make us breakfast – meat on a stick – raw flesh perfectly charred and fills us both to the brim. 


The island is inhabited by the two of us. A kind of idyllic sixth day or a Hopper. But we aren’t so pure, 

We already know too much, less curious after everything that’s gone and keener for a marooning 


Without the temptation of fruit, just meat. I give him head and touch him everywhere soft, warm, 

Our island is perfect for the unexpected rocking, the little round sounds and the swearing 


To a god, murmurings that are so nonsensible they are sensible. Our island is small enough for two 

And it has its own language. It changes shape and floats wherever we like. A chameleon – 


Sometimes our island drifts, vibrating at the back of the big red bus, just about far enough away 

Sometimes our island is the bathroom mirror, both of us grinning, dribbling white frothed water 


Sometimes our island just wraps around the tube’s blue handle as we make our way home 

Sometimes our island just lingers in his gaze – sea-green – lingering at the water’s edge, the body’s limits 


With a persistent yellow-tinge, a few translucent spots, a red-eyed one-eyed creature. 

The last of its kind, the island we are trying to make, and the first ardent reality of everything in my life. 

Georgie is an artist and poet interested in the female form, desire, and touch. Her passions are the written word, history, human connection and all things creative. Art has always been a part of her life and she continues the practice by drawing commissions of dogs and loved ones in her spare time.

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