A Poem by Amy Jo Philip

Knackered, Babes

i.

Origins are futile. There is no expanse to
the reason. State your case for the
record, for the record is unlikely to heed
my voice. Mine is the last voice you will

ever hear. There is no reason for
the exclusion. There is no reason for the
expanse. It stretches for miles, devoid of
moisture or vegetation, like those in-

game scenes from Three Body Problem
on Netflix. We have tried every level but
all we find is this hostile environment.
There is no exposure to the reason. Best-

case scenario: a ten-year struggle to
return to the status we warily enjoyed
two summers ago. State your case for the
record. The morning breeze is cool and

the dog needs walked. The moral arc has
been set adrift on an acid sea.
Blanchard’s cup is fuel and #runningover.
There is no reason for the hostility.

Resistance is fertile. This does not mean
what you think it means, babes.

 
ii.

Origins are not fractal. Do they possess
the property of self-similarity? This does
not state the reason for my case. Am I in-
substantial? Uninitiate? The window

looks north-west to the setting sun, all
mango, strawberry and wisps of cream.
Somewhere in the midst of this, I occupy
my mind – or, at least, a ledge above the

entrance to my mind – but there is no
record because ours is the last voice you
will ever Hear! Hear! Not out of hostility
– face it: you are never out of hostility –

but let’s be honest with unverifiable
hypotheses and unsubstantiated
conclusions. Am I unsubstantiated?
Transubstantiated? I resist the

conclusion. Resistance is fractal.
It possesses, at least approximately,
the property of bloody-minded
self-similarity. Most of the universe is

knackered, babes.

iii.

Origins are not the only fruit. They
possess the property of self-expansion,
growing to encompass the space given.
That’s me in the corner, my small corner.

Swifts shrill the crepuscule, expanding
the evening air. Summer is not only the
fruit. Ten summers ago, they were five
and seven. Now, they deserve better. I

am radiocarbon dating a woman who
makes me laugh and weep in equal
exclusion. Pipistrelles burst from the
evening air and melt instantly back

into the gloaming, expanding the scare.
Laugh and weep with equal exposure to
the hostile environment. Somewhere in
the midst of this, a ledge to occupy,

to occupy my time. That’s me in the
spotlight. Where? Losing my origins.
Trying to keep a new space. But I don’t
know if I can do it. Resistance is fruitful.

Remember that when the stones
come knocking, babes, wielding

neighbours at their backs.

iv. 

Origins are not the only fight, although
they lead too often straight back into the
great expanse of conflict. Resistance is
febrile. What choice does the desert

have but patience? It does not possess
the property of mercy. Resistance is
fateful. The moral arc has not yet verified
its course, its curve, its carve. Resistance

is faithful. The fox in the twilit park
blurs into something unsubstantiated.
Resistance is faithful. Most of the
universe is, even the rocks. Go forth and

bear fruit, fruit that will outlast.
Resistance is faithful. Go forth and gather
the crumbs from beneath the table so as
to form a brick. Resistance is faithful.

There is no reason for this to mean a
curse, babes.

Amy Jo Philip is the first out transgender priest in the Scottish Episcopal Church. Prior to transitioning, she published two pamphlets with HappenStance press and two full collections with Salt Publishing under her deadname. She is working on a third collection, to be published by Blue Diode Press in 2026. Her work has appeared in a number of magazines including Irish Pages, Gutter, Magma, Eemis Stane, and the final edition of Dreich. It has also been included in a number of anthologies, most recently Scottish Religious Poetry: From the Sixth Century to the Present (St Andrew’s Press, 2024) and 10 Poets Defend their Cities Against Giant, Strange Beasts (Sidekick Books, 2024).