By Tim Kenny

The vein starts beneath her thigh and branches. Up and in. A wine-dark sea beneath a marble skin. A subcutaneous current drawing me down. And in. Red pepper lips, tongue hot, tongue sweet. I remember now just knowing words – words flapping like a man who cannot swim. At the source is soft ground, soft, warm on cheek. Black branches wrap. The suppliant moles his nose in the damp earth of an autumn wood.

I was thirsty then, at sea, but the branches hold me now; hold me safe at the source where my tongue can drink. For seven years.

Tim Kenny studied Classics in London and Manchester. His thesis explored (amongst other exciting things) intertexts and indeterminacies in Hellenistic epic. He likes texts that nudge readers off the path, texts that leave spaces for readers to create and what he researches on a large scale, he aims to produce in miniature. Essentially, he reads big but writes small. Anyone intrigued by Narratology and (mostly) Classical poetry, can find him working through ideas at adynamicreader.com.