Ava Patel
Ava Patel won Prole Magazine’s 2021 pamphlet competition with her debut pamphlet ‘Dusk in Bloom’. She’s been published in webzines (London Grip; Ink, Sweat and Tears; Atrium; Porridge) and magazines (South Bank Poetry; Orbis; SOUTH; Dream Catcher; New Welsh Reader, The Seventh Quarry, DREICH). She runs an Instagram poetry page: @ava_poetics.
Focus on What Already Is
Remember who you are, where you are,what you’ve earned, how you earned it.
Close your eyes and nod if you like fireworks.
Good.
Now close your eyes and hold out your palm.
I know. When you hurt, it feels nice to give a little back.To pick up a piece of paper and open his flesh a little
with the paper’s edge but remember who you are,where you are, what you’ve earned and how you earned it.
Close your eyes and nod if you like fireworks.
Good.
Now close your eyes and hold out your palm.
I know. When you hurt, it feels nice to give a little back.To pick up a piece of paper and open his flesh a little
with the paper’s edge but remember who you are,where you are, what you’ve earned and how you earned it.
We’re Family
The bat, the humble bat, the unwavering, undisturbed peachinessof the bat is shaped like a house. The in-laws are in the ceilingdusting cobwebs, flitting in and out of open windows,clustering themselves in and around our home.
There is the grapefruit bat, the persimmon bats,the going bowling bowling ball bats somersaulting along lanes,scoring strikes. We have a tumult of baby bats,the raw bat, little bat hearts roasting in ovens.
Bat memories are apricot scented and beat like hooves.The Christened bat stinks of rusk and milk,and so does the bat weak with quandariness. Here I am,the piece of puzzle bat, and my husband bat,who wishes he were a pentagon.
There is the grapefruit bat, the persimmon bats,the going bowling bowling ball bats somersaulting along lanes,scoring strikes. We have a tumult of baby bats,the raw bat, little bat hearts roasting in ovens.
Bat memories are apricot scented and beat like hooves.The Christened bat stinks of rusk and milk,and so does the bat weak with quandariness. Here I am,the piece of puzzle bat, and my husband bat,who wishes he were a pentagon.
Pluviophiles
Night is a fresh bruise. A black eye
I built when I was mad the other evening.An accident. London’s monotonoussheets of rain make us feel dreary.We want to bleed against each other;
we ask for lightning.
Entwined and stunned, stains bloom across our clothes.The cotton is dark, full of snot and tears.
Pearls align against our cheeksbut we are stern with them. They are notrainfall. They leave us painfully and slowly.
I built when I was mad the other evening.An accident. London’s monotonoussheets of rain make us feel dreary.We want to bleed against each other;
we ask for lightning.
Entwined and stunned, stains bloom across our clothes.The cotton is dark, full of snot and tears.
Pearls align against our cheeksbut we are stern with them. They are notrainfall. They leave us painfully and slowly.
Pie Chart
I am the human embodiment ofsome sort of pie chart handing outslices of myself. One to my mother,one to my career, another to share between themen who love me too much. Iam spread so thin, I havebecome transparent, hardened to glass,stretched out from thumb to thumb,toe to head, with an audience lobbingpopcorn into their mouths, watchingme, still and screaming.
Here’s What I Know
not what I want, what I know: There’s no blood between my bones, tissue, organs.Only energy; crackling, burning, forcingvibrations up and down my body. There’s power inside me,and light and strength.Have you noticed? I’m growing.Taller and wider than pine trees.Feeling stronger and tougherthan a crisp piece of bark. I’ve sprung from the ground, lone and proud,hands coated in earth. As the day breaks,I talk to the dew, whisper my intentions,cackle with the morning light,watching as it dances and peersthrough the dirt on my hands.
