Shapeshift into a stray cat,
live on the scraps I can beg.
Pick apart the seams on all my shirts,
then sew them back together
with the sleeves mixed up.
Dig a network of tunnels under my town,
and take up residence in them.
Break every clock I see.
Leave the fields of my future wild,
my calendar unconquered land.
Spend the next five decades writing
a single poem that will be forgotten,
then rediscovered by a civilisation
built on the flooded remains of ours.
Or, failing all that,
find an internship?
Becca Miles
Becca used to be a biologist who wrote to procrastinate and accidentally procrastinated their way into a Creative Writing BA. They've published individual poems in More Exhibitionism, BFS: Horizons, and Vortex. In 2020 they contributed twelve poems to the joint collection Steel-Tipped Snowflakes.
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