Lottie Cousins is a London based musician and writer, originally from Chester. She received her bachelor’s degree in English from UCL in 2022. Her poetry deals with themes of mortality, eco-grief and prelapsarian desire; the tension between past and present versions of the world and the self. She is also working on a collection of comedic life-writing essays.   

E: lottiecousins.ft@live.co.uk

Mouse 

‘it’s dying’ 

I kneel 

head bowed 

hands cupped 

a gentle nudge  

‘disease!’ 

little thing  

such short breaths  

watery eyes  

half-closed crescents  

‘poison’ 

quivering whiskers  

ears laid back 

a tear that 

runs between  

‘put it in the garden’ 

she sways 

in my hand 

the boat that will  

bear her away 

her tiny claws  

tickle my palms 

 

October 31st 

the first frost— 

I thought it too soon. 

but I’ve been told 

it does no good to assume, 

these days. 

  

a rusted leaf, 

sitting right there. 

did you not see it? 

did you not hear the shrieks,  

or see the masks? 

  

it could be June 

for all I know. 

if I looked in the mirror 

I might see a T-Shirt 

and shorts. 

  

in any case, 

there it is: 

that cheap glitter,  

that white mould— 

mocking me, winking.  

 

Buttercup  

a memory from childhood:  

‘do you like butter?’ 

their insides are shiny— 

they are melting.  

 

I’ve never seen them so tall; 

they are reaching for me. 

the petals curl around my fingertip, 

like a baby’s tiny hand.  

 

 

Monroe 

When I was big enough  

to sit in the front seat  

I stared at myself 

in the wing mirror— 

another sky— 

and saw a starlet. 

I watched her die  

a tragic death. 

She was too young,  

I thought they’d say. 

 

Now, in the train window: 

valleys carved out 

by limbo lights, 

tilted nostrils, shaded eyes. 

Also, five moons,  

copies of a copy, 

like altar breads 

waiting above me; 

I stick out my tongue, 

a vulgar creature. 

 

 

Bird 

A bird of prey, 

Dead for some time.  

Wings splayed, crucified,  

Feathers spread, like 

Mushroom gills.  

And its eyes are closed  

So gently,  

As though it just lay down  

To rest, 

And some foul beast came and 

Plucked the heart  

Straight from its breast.  

 

Boat  

the girl waves, 

and I wave back. 

I thought I was safe, 

hidden in the trees… 

 

there is nowhere I can go  

to be entirely alone. 

the flies are always here,  

resting on my ankles.