FLUID

I wouldn’t exist if my parents hadn’t crossed theI remade myself along Manchester and Wigan canals,walked frozen rivers in Beijing, returned with the snow.I melted and sweated and sobbed over brilliant women,then ran and cycled and starved till I nearly broke apartbecause I hated my body, allowing myself one mercy:sweet, sweet water. Now, every morning in the shower,I caress my solid, full form, tenderly rub it with bergamot.I live in a small, magical flat, rain outside the window.