Amy Key




He had a desperate radiance. We asked ourselves: what colour
would his lips be dead? We were somewhat nude in our wanting
for him. “When I am laid, am laid in earth” sang Mariette.
She’d mentally enclosed him in a tender glass coffin. I sought
out pyjamas I thought he’d like and washed them again
and again till the nub and weave waned. Me and Mariette
plaited each other’s hair and glued seed pearls along our brows.
There were never enough cakes to go round. He’d once kissed
my wrist and this made me special. I cupped the kiss like a spider.
We wanted him dead, we were rehearsed for weeping. As he slept
we discussed how a death could be made. My tribute was long
prepared, and all the music chosen.


AMY KEY lives and works in London. She co-edits the online journal Poems in Which. Her pamphlet Instead of Stars was published by the tall-lighthouse in 2009 and her debut full collection Luxe is forthcoming from Salt.


Read more by Amy Key:

Author’s Tumblr: Leopard-skin Pill-box Hat
Six poems on Peony Moon blog
Interview and reading on London Fields Radio