Category: prose

• August 31, 2016

  Smithfield

  And she cannot look at me for long. She cried four times. Not for us. Because the hallway had been painted grey, because she had a cold, because she missed a long dead pet. Because I would not look away? She does not know how to say that she cares. My mother, she cannot look…
• November 19, 2015

  Stillborn

  Outside the library I see you. Blackbird. On the ground by the tree, the tallest tree looking like you were asleep. I fold you into an A4 sheet and bring you with me. It is a grey dusk. That spectre-bearing winter sky hangs stillborn above us, blackbird and me, while I cycle to Aldi, to…
• July 23, 2015

  Limbs

  it would be strange if we switched limbs – on a night wolf-cry hot the part where lipcracks turn to mouthflesh  and forearms cool foreheads ~ while the sky lights quiet-as-milk Laced fingers and funny bones behind ears the tenderest of skin – lover big moon ghost in my garden friend of mine  – it would be…
• July 23, 2015

  supermarket

  We were never silent, never. We were kodak happy. Something about the memory of us is just that. Bright. Two dimensional. The strip lighting buzz of a supermarket on a sunday morning. You aren’t the sea, not even a drop.There is nothing vast about you. You are eager, comfortable, confident in your affection. Self assured…