by Anya Trofimova, UK
remember how we once took a ride towards leafless woodland, you struggling to navigate the swelling swamp-roads, the sediment of slush by the curb? you said this was england. i say this is climate change. later, at sunset you sat there cold-blooded and sated in the blaring untapped sun, the horizon a near- blinding white, propped up by the oil-slick light of headlights. together we watched the tarred sky burning away, blind to the stars that once were there where a human settlement has now burst its banks. the trees – they’re grey and gnawed like chicken bones, the effluent of last night’s winter. you try to distil the reality from the sea of processed oil that trickles out of our wireless – your indifference lies panting like the tarred and stagnant savannah. our conversation laps time beyond us – your mouth is full of times of parched throats and cracked skin in the off-cuts of our world. we both know we’re only treading the brackish water of a shoreless sea. they say interstate 40 is swamped with rented RV’s, barren wasteland of road flooded with vehicles. so, this is what we now call seasonal migration?