Due to restrictions this poem has modified formatting. let’s say there is an eye above the cheekbone of the sky.though, not shaped like a star,but like a mouth that sneaks light into our bodies—sterilises us from the trenches of night.like a creep. like a seed. like hope.or let’s say there is a cracked wallon the navel of the earth. underneath,everything
Due to restrictions this poem has modified formatting. at 2:03pmI notice where your watch used to be.Day’s mathematics were perched abovejutting wrist bone, Time’s face restedon the inside of your forearm. Now –“can you pass me my tablets, love” –formulas: swallowed, digested, to fix youpiece by piece by limb by sinew.The hand of a hiding godnearly plucked you from us.The
He got off his merchant ship one day, and decided that out of all the placesthat he’d been,Plymouth was where he wanted to end his travels. Back then, he was made up of a leather jacket and a motorbikeLike my mum, though she had more sense, and, unlike him, was made upof a helmet too. He was made up of
I sleep on your side of the bed. BesideMy grandmother. Pickled grief spreadsIts furry feet in the hollow on my backAnd travels upward over skin and settles In glittering corners of open eyes. I am sorryFor shrinking from your touch, I am sorryFor being repulsed by the years, work andDays of hands arranged upon your body Within folds of thin
See the full list of winners and shortlisted authors. The winners and selected shortlisted and highly commended pieces will appear in a new hope-themed anthology in 2023. First Prize Short Story: Holly Barratt, ‘Anthropocene’ I’m a globe with legs. This ancient fit-to-burst rucsac on my back, and an ancient fit-to-burst belly on the front. Like an idiot I dressed in blue and
The sea is rising, slowly.Currently at ankle height.I do not know whether he standsTo admire beauty or await the rising tide.I wish to wait and watch the seaClimb higher on his grey suitUntil the ash wool resemblesCharcoal after a fire. To watch itReach the knees, hips, elbows…But I do not wish to see him drown.The image is so serene, so
Joe’s Parlour was the place for birthdays, special treats and a towering Knickerbocker Glory when Mum divorced, and we went there to celebrate not seeing Dad so often.I didn’t like fruit salad or strawberry sucked like blood through a straw; the never-ending spoon, stirring split cream and syrup water. The confusion of tastes. Nicholas McGaughey has new work forthcoming in
The dawn rips my eyes awayfrom the corners of slumber &I snag it back – a snail recoilinginto the drape of its shell. Behindthe windows breathe the feet oftroubles, forewarning realities thatwait. I drown myself – a crashingairplane caressing the translucenteyelids, I am under the water &eerie rays from above could notlure me up. A waiting warrior ofworries is a
Every morning I watch my breakfastas it sizzles in the frying pan.I eat in solitude,and I think to myself:“I am more alive nowthan I have ever been.” It feels elatingto drink my comfortable tea.Because of this,I smile at myselfwhen I brush my teetheach night. Going out is such a treatwhenthere are no restrictions.The world is really my oyster,as it is
coffee doesn’t taste the same in fact caffeine can be a killer i now often keel over
whilst pregnant during showers dry retching dry or vomiting in the circling water
on my washed feet a cot doesn’t matter
nor the cheap but whatican’t easilybuybabygrows in Barnados
and all i can think of that does matter is cots
