Ode to my body, after a run
I love to think of you like this –
stretched on the carpet, full fizz
of a long run drunk, the rust
of your blood scrubbed to this shine;
body like a hot rushing riverbed
sweat rivulets running between
your breasts, small of your back
stoked to a tiny furnace, the canvas
of your arms slicked to linseed,
veins Prussian-blue, heart clear
as glass plate. I am humble before you,
legs splayed easy as an A,
spine stretched like an old accordion,
vertebrae studded in gold leaf,
star dust, the tiny clock hands
of your cells pushing forward
through space-time. You are more
than a ghost body to me now,
twine in the back of my thighs
hanging a painting that someone
might still look at. It doesn’t matter
that I could once lay my stomach
on the floor between my legs
as lightly as a china cup,
you spill new as dew
across the floor, bodice of muscle
and sinew unhooked a little
by Sunday morning’s trembling hands.
Olga is from Northern Ireland and lives in Warwickshire. She has published two pamphlets: apple, fallen and A sky full of strange specimens. Her first collection Frieze is published by Nine Arches Press. Her poetry has been featured in The Guardian, and she won the Strokestown International Poetry Competition 2025.