Wednesday, 15 May 2019

Roy G. Biv by Emma Thompson

Sometimes I remember the days
I spent with Roy in my childhood.
Eager hands
ripping through paper and plastic
as if it were Christmas.

Roy is a red Chewit
with a bit of the wrapper
still attached.
A soft ooze belied by crystalline edges--
a meaning I was yet to catch.

Roy is an orange Calippo
I savoured every drop of,
wringing the ice
till juice ran down my chin
and somebody else cleaned up my mess.

Roy is a yellow Pom Bear
I carefully dissected, limb by limb--
leaving only a head.
I apologised profusely
but I don’t think he heard me.

Roy is a green-bundled After Eight
I took as an instruction.
It tastes like responsibility
(an introduction to adulthood)
and I eagerly spat it out.

Roy is a blue dolphin
purchased at a cinema.
A rolling chew of thoughts left idle
before they had a chance
to turn cynical.

Roy is an indigo Yorkie bar,
telling me I wasn’t allowed.
I never thought he was serious
but my chocolate mouth turns to tar
whenever a man yells at me from his car.

Roy is a Parma Violet
found at the bottom of a party bag.
Nobody actually wants it
but we take them home with us
anyway.

Sometimes I remember the days
I spent with Roy in my childhood
and I realise I’m better
for leaving him behind.

---

Emma Thompson is an Archaeology student (soon-to-be liminal graduate) forever lamenting the lack of dinosaurs in her course and, subsequently, deals with said anguish through poetry. Born of a Danish, secular, sex-positive mother and an Irish, Catholic, repressed father, Emma is well-versed in internal conflict and likes to explore this frequently in her work. She is the current president of the University of Birmingham's Writers’ Bloc and recently headlined at Howl in Moseley.

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