Young Poet: Heather Chapman

Heather Chapman is a Durham University student. She was a 2023 Foyles Young Poet, and was shortlisted for the 2024 Tower Poetry competition and the 2023 Wells Festival Young Poets prize.

Dog Days

Your lips make a clicking sound

as you pull them across your teeth.

You tune your flesh towards visitation:

your joints labour over their arrangement;

a plane of light swells shoulders,

surface for eating. Strung out

across several summers, we suffer

for our conversions, each shift of subject.

You hold ice to your ankle. I miss

my hands, busy in Greece, clutching

someone’s collar. Arrogant in strange sinew,

one version of you sits in a plastic chair,

king of all the land. Double doors open

like lips, everything like lips. In July

the temperature rises 13 degrees

and you lie sweating, all Greco-Roman.

An arrowhead’s tongue nuzzles

the vulnerability under your ribs. I eat

your leftover steak; think of the soft bones

in your ear; visit the piece of you buried

by the river, your chin a bulb of heat. I go

to bed early, wake to find three of my ribs

kicking at your door. My mildewed Eden,

all the hinges scabbed with rust. I will make you:

again, and again, and again.

Rat Dissection Love Poem

Its fur chemically silked, a brown like

creationism: God grinding pigment in a pestle.

A fable’s hard edge in its bone-propped

skin. I think of Victorian scientists,

callous in white coats, twitching

frogs into neon life. A prey animal’s pulse

gnaws my neck, something of a blood sport.

You turn me brutalist – a bubble of blood

at my knuckles, a weight to my hands.

Last Sunday I knelt on Victorian silk

and wished for us together like vein clutches

tendon. In chapel, you stumbled

over description of Jacob’s ladder’s

sinew-pink rungs, and blushed. I am afraid

of my ulterior motives, of the kind

right hand of God. I urge my crisis of faith

to form a ragged silhouette and billow

down the wall. I want a haunting,

the way poltergeist loves the broken

glass, for its honesty and for the sound

of light passing through it. I am good

at making martyrs. A splinter

of sun, skinned through stained glass,

congeals a hamartia at your collar.

The scalpel baptised in pink Virkon.

The head of John the Baptist on a silver platter.

The unfolding of organs. The kindness

of a sharp knife in a familiar hand.