I learnt to be the needle
to his record, knife to his cutting board,
cook to his broth. Drawn to the bulb
of his scalp, I curled around his feet
like parentheses and listened to stories
that might glaze bone.
– Frankenstein’s Dog by D A Angelo. Read the full poem.
In late winter I sowed so many seeds,
spending time in a blindly hopeful gamble:
covered them in dirt knowing nothing
would appear at all for weeks, if ever.
– Seeds by Ted Gooda. Read the full poem.
Sackbuts and Ashes
Too tired to go to bed or stay awake,
my brain teems with crippled tadpoles.
I have a need to die young and tragic
but have left it too late. I need a shave…
Read the full poem by Catherine Edmunds here.