If you believe

Amy Dugmore

after Hannah Lowe

If you believe it’s possible

for a man, caught between two worlds,

clinging to respectability, to make the leap

into uncertainty other than over

a concrete parapet, and down—

having taken off his glasses first,

his expensive watch, having placed his phone,

carefully, in the glovebox, beforehand

but not taking off his shoes,

you may as well believe in

the floss-haired child with livid cheeks,

toddling across the lawn to lift

pretend teacups from a tabletop

onto a blanket, her eyes fox-feral

melted amber, yours. She’s serving

a makeshift picnic for bears with fixed

faces, pre-stuffed stomachs. You may as well

believe that a man is no worse

than the bears in the woods, no

better than the hollow ring

of an enamel tea set

when I clatter my teacup

into the sink and I am lifted

out of this kitchen and onto your lawn, to stare

down into the patio windows,

reach out to stroke the stone

shaped like a fox’s face,

check it still fits in my palm, feel it

nestled among the paving stones along the low wall

that borders the magnolia with its upturned

cups. You may as well believe

that I or you or we become

the fox in the henhouse, stretching

out onto the lawn, chittering through mouthfuls

of feathers, under the tree that,

it’s possible, you didn’t cut down

AMY DUGMORE is a poet and copywriter from Birmingham, UK. Her work has appeared in The North, Poetry Wales, Atrium and Propel Magazine, among others. She was shortlisted in the 2025 Hippocrates International Poetry Prize.