He fell like a sticky leaf onto
the trunk of her body.
The root of his need sprouted,
primordial and intense.
It was greedy, sucking
the juice from her.
As his roots grew into her body
he declared they were the same being.
He told her over and over.
He strained to reach
above the canopy of foliage.
He felt subsumed in her
so he pushed down harder,
anchoring himself in the soil.
His tendrils engulfed
her emaciated body
until she stooped
under his weight.
He reached the light
and stood glorious, alone.
The trunk he had embraced
had shrunk to nothing.
He had become a collection of
impulses surrounding a hollow space.
Emma Webb lives in Sheffield. She is a teacher, writer, musician and mother. She has worked as a lecturer in French. She has written a doctoral thesis on French women’s autobiography and has published several reviews, articles, and a book of literary criticism. More recently, while raising her three children, she has released a CD of her songs, has completed a novel and is working on a second one, along with a collection of poems. She enjoys helping out in her kids’ local school, reading anything she can get her hands on and jotting down ideas. She feels lucky to live so close to the glorious Peak District and often seeks inspiration in its landscape. She loves baking and making things with her kids and chills out by meditating and doing Body Jam at the gym.
By Phil Ryan