Human Writes: Sophie Wembridge


  Daughters of The Sun

So straggling limbs are an anthem unable to be sung

             because their tongue is a noose, every word fighting asphyxiation. 

Only undiscovered eyes like a male box for perversity

          stamped with prices of patriarchy. 

                     Their blood oath is their birth place - poured

                                 into money moulds to penetrate their souls with. The letter-

Lock picking your mothers door,

            descending like crows at dawn out of a ready loaded gun

                         and her reserves is a supply they peck at.

suffering bottled and sold with unconsented silence,        

           their falcon feathers plucked and compacted.

                     These are the ones who scream the anthem of the sun,

these are the eBay girls.



The understudy

These travels have taken years,

ever- forward, ever- altering

never-knowing, yet we drive.

Fragrant music yielding to demands

of wind misspelling our voices.

A Spanish song - foreign. 

Sheet music of misplaced conversations

Atheist windows premeditate the past

revelled in the maternal sunset

apprehensively embracing the car,

a new shade of the painted landscape

sheer across us both - his laughter gold.

Looking out across the cliff at lost years, over land

I was a fugitive and dad was the ground. 


These are the men

This was the image of self:

                      engraving hieroglyphics spelled by

decapitated bottles,

                               chasms in plasterboard.

Endeavouring to burn sparks in a vacuum. Forfeiting a

genetically modified heritage. 

               The same flaxen hairs making them look alike, 

but these are not the men who seed their children.



Seducing Sleep

Since birth you’ve conflicted me,

called my name only to leave me stranded

within myself.

Last night your voice cradled me for a while.

That all consuming serenity whispered 

like the lullaby of nebulas and stars.

Will you come to see me again?

You tease like those ivories played half- strung

and dissonant, you beckon me, uttering satiric

promises of visions within grasp.

Dimensions which wait for my eyes to close

with photographic prints of a Polaroid darkness, 

the waltz of such lies.

Again I will yearn for you

and you will allude me

leaving me to wake, somewhere

in the cold each off your delirium.