The baker's daughter
is watching me through the reed-slicks,
her eyes surrounded by floury feathers.
Her wings canvas the river. I dip
my twitching toes in her waters, her eyes
pull me in as she says if she could she'd go back,
back to before her life turned owl: she'd give him
all the bread he wanted, she'd bake forever
then pile up his pockets and run, her arms
burnt from the loaves.
My eyes itch like yeast. She says they hate
our flowers and songs, our stupid owlish faces,
and her mud slurps my violets, I sink my knees down
into her fishes and bubbles and claws.
'No girl can ever die honest,' she toots,
tugging me in with her beak.
About the Author
Annie Katchinska was born in Moscow in 1990 and has lived in London for most of her life. She started writing poetry when she was fifteen and was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year in 2006 and 2007. She has had poems published in Magma
and Voice Recognition
and was a prize winner in the Christopher Tower Poetry Competition 2007. She is currently studying for a Classics degree at Cambridge University.