Hothouse Flower: after Yves Tumor (Sophia Holme)

You keep my memories on a USB stick

and you bury my baby teeth in a sonnet. 

But it’s more diversion than perversion 

I don’t know how seriously to take this.

I wake up and my tongue is gone

I find it under the bed, I’m fine but

my mouth is so full of dust I can’t taste 

for weeks. Four weeks, and already

I can’t remember another bedroom.

It’s ridiculous. You lock my hands 

behind my back so we can watch GMB 

in peace, I thumb the key I keep hidden up 

one sleeve and do nothing but stifle a yawn.

You lock me in a dryer and I’m not sure 

Whether to panic or not, baby which 

would you prefer, you know how little 

air I need, exactly, the science but do

you know yet if you want to hear my 

frantic beg, my pummelling fists not even 

denting that metal, or shall I not even give you 

The satisfaction, curled up and calm until you die 

of curiosity and rip the door open and I tumble

onto you pale and gasping and weak and grateful 

the damp feel of my lips like licking an orchid? 

Please, do whatever is best for yourself. 

You step to the left, but I’ve always been a leaver, 



Sophia Holme (she/her) is a queer poet and bookseller made in Canada but based in Oxford, England. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Southchild Lit and Not Deer Magazine, among other places. In her spare time she enjoys running, reading bits of several novels at once, and drinking a lot of coffee. Find her on Twitter @HolmeSophia 


image: MM Kaufman