Chloe England
To Martyr a Woman
And listen, the blood wasn’t red when they cut her.
It was gold & glowing & gleamed
She was beautiful, they said, bleeding starlight
they wondered if this is what it means
to believe in redemption. If perhaps
there is a man in the sky. If beauty is all that she was made for.
if her pain was worth the sacrifice.
To see a woman expel the universe. For her to leave us with this awe.
They think that it was worth it. They think it made us believe.
They think beauty is what she was for – a beauty made
to grieve.
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But what of the fire that torched her touch?
What of the steel of her bones?
Do you wonder if perhaps that starlight through her veins was rusted blood turned gold?
///
Because listen, there is no beauty in the throes of hunger,
Or this cruel semblance of death.
This is a tale they tell to keep us reaching
But listen, look at those clutching hands,
All withered and bone
Look at the hollowed ghost they made you,
look at the ugliness of this death
This floor-flung madness, this tale old as Bristlecone Pine.
///
There are few women I know who glowed from the inside out:
It’s 1917, & the Radium Girls are hungry, & they are dying.
Skin-glowed and hollow, their blood was still red.
It was gold & glowing & gleamed
She was beautiful, they said, bleeding starlight
they wondered if this is what it means
to believe in redemption. If perhaps
there is a man in the sky. If beauty is all that she was made for.
if her pain was worth the sacrifice.
To see a woman expel the universe. For her to leave us with this awe.
They think that it was worth it. They think it made us believe.
They think beauty is what she was for – a beauty made
to grieve.
///
But what of the fire that torched her touch?
What of the steel of her bones?
Do you wonder if perhaps that starlight through her veins was rusted blood turned gold?
///
Because listen, there is no beauty in the throes of hunger,
Or this cruel semblance of death.
This is a tale they tell to keep us reaching
But listen, look at those clutching hands,
All withered and bone
Look at the hollowed ghost they made you,
look at the ugliness of this death
This floor-flung madness, this tale old as Bristlecone Pine.
///
There are few women I know who glowed from the inside out:
It’s 1917, & the Radium Girls are hungry, & they are dying.
Skin-glowed and hollow, their blood was still red.
Biography
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Chloe England (she/her) is a Welsh poet and writer currently completing her degree in BA History at Exeter University. Alongside her studies, Chloe has been writing since her teens when poetry felt like the most pertinent outlet to adolescent dramatics. She writes about and is inspired by themes of home, identity, mental health, history, and the beauty of the everyday. You can find her other work in ENIGMA Journal, Bloom Magazine, and, upcoming, The York Literary Review. Additionally, you can follow her at @Ouijachloe on Instagram and @Onlinechloe on Twitter to keep up with her journey as a poet.
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