her to my own | Devin Welch

her
to my
own.

saw a girl. she looked like you with someone who looked like me,
but taller with more weight. there were moments in the chais, rather
than this alarmed street with gum under my shoe and a ringing ear
and folks who don’t want me. the pubs with warm beer, I miss bars.
you’re a mother now. and the younger we age, two years equity and
sixty thousand exchanges they still looked like us. her less beautiful.

in the revolving barber’s chair i’m asked about my hair, but I can’t see in the passing
mirrors of the market where the drawn doors and portraits of those who’ve never been
here sleep behind the streetlamps. back to the cheap tabs and bad company where i can’t
tell love from brixton’s best. i thank god i’m not wet ‘cause i’ve floated that lido and i’m
sick of english words. i miss temperament, but can’t return to buoy in grandlake and not
course downstream. which i guess wouldn’t be so bad, not if I could stay on my back.

Originally from the front range, Devin Welch currently lives and works in London, UK where he recently finished his MFA at the University of London, Birkbeck. His prose, reviews, poetry, and films have been featured in publications across North America and Europe.