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By Lucy Whalen

I made the Milky Way out of seaweed

and sang of light in a nursery rhyme,

burnt my fingers on a lighter

as I set the sun ablaze.


I drank from earth and smashed the bottle,

poured sand over her like glitter - watered

with tears of selkies I met

in the smoking area.


I hung the moon up like a disco ball,

breathed life into her lungs 

to the rhythm of a remix

told by ancient tongues.


Breathing, panting, screaming life

I bled my children from the oceans

to sing at the sky

and to learn to stand at the edge of land,


mascara-smudged mermaids

watching the sunrise


and after the final day,

as God stretched in his sleep

beneath the ocean floor,

I stamped meteors

through the ceiling


danced in the flame.

Lucy Whalen (she/her) is a poet from Durham, England, who writes a lot about the weird sides of love, loss, nature, and the night sky. She has a degree in French Studies and English Literature from Lancaster University. In her free time, she enjoys pole fitness, singing, and reading Jane Austen. You can find her on Instagram at @lucy_whalen, or on her website

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