Samantha Walton

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four apocalypse sonnets

the forest is not a church 
but I have cried in it
thrown myself onto the ground
my phone at trees
screamed 
I am very fucking sad
at squirrels 
the thing is to be alone
so none can come across you 
the thing is to be stag moss
burnt saxifrage
light dappling on earth

*

I crave
spooky thrills
for romance
it’s not enough to hold you
I must wear your skin
they used to call it high maintenance
now they call it soft gothic
say bitch say omen
say child of water & stone
slip the charm into your mouth
& bite
it will only crawl back in

*

it used to feel so histrionic to invoke the ‘apocalypse’
to wield an optimism 
as cruel as it is anachronistic
I will take the trees
protecting their dead
the slow rotation of the earth
I would give the net of my hair 
the queer twirled surface of my spleen
my blood’s skein
to be plugged into whatever 
pulses in the dirt
I will suck the marrow of myself 
want only what is best

*

I’ll decide what’s too much
when we will walk outside
to whine of moth mosquito
flutter of owl & night jar
a week without the sun
& here I am starting
a sky burial
there’s an art in sacrifice
you have to feel really good about it 
to the last possible second
a week of summer sadness
black moon on black
I offer myself to
the god of fire & salt marshes 
I offer blood, flesh & memory
but remain intact

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SAMANTHA WALTON is a Bristol-based poet, academic and co-editor of Sad Press. Recent publications include Bad Moon (Spam Press, 2020) and Self Heal (Boiler House, 2018). Her non-fiction book, Everybody Needs Beauty: In Search of the Nature Cure is forthcoming from Bloomsbury in 2021.