Anya Trofimova
​Image by Dimitris Mourousiadis from Pexels                                                                                        
Anya Trofimova is a young poet from London, where she studies at St Paul's Girls' School. Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including Planet in Peril (Fly on the Wall Press) and Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal (Pallina Press), and has been recognised by Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, Saltaire Festival Poetry Competition, Erbacce Prize 2020 and the Felix Dennis Young Poets Competition, among others. When she is not writing, she works on the editorial boards of both the Siblíní Journal and Sandpiper Magazine
a far cry in concrete atlantis

​ 

today in the            papers 
                                the land of       milk and
                                                                                 honey,
                                                           full-bellied, forgiving, 
                                                                                                                     dredges        up blood 
                                                                                                                             does not conceal

                                                                                                                                       its attempt 
                                                                                                                          at sloppy seconds
                                                                                                                                          this time 
behind                   sugared smiles
            our tongues lie 
                           culled, congealing 
                                                                                                                          we ask ourselves 
                                                                                                                                       questions 

                                                                                                                                   about water, 


come at it     from    every    angle
         it will whittle 

             us all down but not before 
             we’ve mistaken its gleam 
for unmarked gold

every passerby for sampson, 
                   hoping to cleave his mane 

         not before we’ve stalked 
                                                              the empty aisles
                                                                                                                                   like lauded things

                                                                  slipped pennies onto

                                                                                                           our eyelids: childlike, unhinged

                                                                                                         our jaws and made our courteous 

                                                                                                  departures

                                            grand curtain call washing line ending.

​                           





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