Hackles
Édouard Manet, Un Bar aux Folies-Bergère, 1881-2, oil on canvas, Courtauld Insitute of Art, London, UK
I can still name all the stops on the train between Liverpool and Nottingham.
Goodbyes to my grandma always included tears and be careful on that train.
My mind would go to the unfortunate William Huskisson,
the first railway passenger casualty,
but this wasn’t the type of danger she feared.
Two hours and forty minutes to read and daydream.
Strangers met along the way.
A soft Scottish woman called May
preparing for her husband’s empty chair at Christmas dinner.
She wrote her address in my diary in handwriting to match her gentle voice.
A man told me about his long-distance relationship.
The thing is, relationships are all about trust, like me and you could get off at the next stop and get a hotel somewhere but we wouldn’t.
I really wish he hadn’t used me as an example.
I was too polite to move seats.
My friend caught a train yesterday, a man stared at her, licking his lips.
Did he have a dry mouth?
Was he thinking about warm donuts at the fair?
Was he being suggestive? Making her uncomfortable on purpose?
She didn’t know.
A walk amongst pine trees on my own.
A man stopped as I passed, no polite hello. He just stood, blinked.
Why have I come to the woods alone? I should be able to come to the woods alone - argument in my head as I increase my pace,
hackles up like a nervy rescue mutt.
The smalls of our backs are touched by clammy hands as men with too much aftershave navigate their way across busy bars.
I think they’d manage without doing this.
I think they’d manage without doing all of this.
Hannah Norris (she/her) is 'obsessed' with writing diaries and interested in turning this material into poems. She started writing poetry as an outlet for grief but has since branched out to other topics, including her adopted city (Liverpool, UK) and the perils of her late twenties. Norris has been featured in Liverpool-based JARG magazine, Streetcake, and BBC Radio Merseyside. Follow her on IG @hannahnozza. Her family doesn't think her poems qualify as poems as they don't rhyme.