Buttons that respond organically, take what they see and enjoy the proximity of other animals, the things they say, the way we say them. No longer villages, we are three-course meals, one plate after another, each understood only in terms of our neighbours, our alternatives, our allergens. I’m talking about smashing the plates up, the cutlery, getting our hands in, even if it’s soup and we’re not built for it. I’m talking about eating off the floor if we want to, legs entwined, mouthfuls from the arms of eager acquaintances. I’m talking about houses with ten bedrooms, five beds in each. I’m talking about telling people where you are going, not because you have to, but because you might want them to come along. Gentle snoring like the sound of waves crashing against rocks that have always been uncommunicative. Reliable. You, the sand. Me, the sand. All of it inseparable, unimportant. I want bread and butter with too much butter. Watch me. I want to eat with my unwashed hands.
Lydia Unsworth is the author of two collections of poetry: Certain Manoeuvres (Knives Forks & Spoons, 2018) and Nostalgia for Bodies (Erbacce, 2018), for which she won the 2018 Erbacce Poetry Prize. Her work can be found in Ambit, Pank, Litro, Tears in the Fence, Banshee, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Sentence: Journal of Prose Poetics, among other places. Based in Manchester/Amsterdam. Twitter @lydiowanie
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