April again and wet what did she say about the         moon?         a whisper to wane rotting into feathers                     didn’t want to play the game where one fucks           bereft       to a       repeated tune night brims                           disembodied           on a flat roof and a dead    starling makes it worse what did she say?                                         death drips from spoons scummy with pissed-out        hormones and bodyfat painful with     plastic              pale residues did she say something?                binjuice            stains or slippage my face made up                   of water        splays wet against glass did she say that? the street two metres             down                is the colour of never and what is the use?                                cars slither along tarmac and it’s not where we go                                the rain gets heavier with the moon and just           me        left     ...

Swan Song after David Lynch     a sownder of gliding swans white horses frothing in stardust exploding paper mice a cat bowing in soft-focus before a tassle of gloves a rustle of harps knowing applause misted by a lens     Jane Salmons lives in Stourbridge in the West Midlands. Her first pamphlet entitled 'Enter GHOST' and first collection entitled 'The Quiet Spy' are both due to be published in 2022.  In addition to writing poetry, Jane enjoys creating handmade collage. She is on Instagram @foxysphotomontage.

      Containment I drive your lemon yellow Smart ForTwo six hundred miles home from your flat— stuffed to the roof, my suitcase crammed on top, your miniature car swells to welcome a pile of your leavings, rescued from Junk-It Ltd. house clearance: Teach Yourself Serbo-Croat 1.5l Breville slow cooker CDs: Bach to Zemlinsky—we played some at your funeral one bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky two Art Nouveau vases—might be candlesticks our father’s pewter retirement mug diary of a devastating holiday with your lover unpublished epic poem—illustrated IKEA floral duvet cover boxes of family papers: wills, deeds, letters. Back home: I struggle with Serbo-Croat make curry in your slow cooker play the Bach on my hi-fi eke out sips of Laphroaig use the vases as candlesticks place the mug on a high shelf revise my view of your lover show no-one your poem store your duvet cover under my towels cry over letters. I sell my Shadow Black Fiesta. For a year, your Smart ForTwo cradles...

      A Parishioner Complains at a Parish Church Council When We Move the Time of Evensong  You have changed the Bible you have changed the words in the service you have brought in girls to serve at the altar and women can now be sidesmen and any minute now you will let that priestess next door with her earrings and clacky heels come and take the service when you’re on holiday and anyone can now read the lessons but I liked it better when it was just me and the headmaster and we now pray for all people instead of all men and you have changed the creed to say that it was for us and our salvation that Jesus came and not for us men and you have changed the words of Onward Christian Soldiers where would you be without our soldiers we would be speaking in German and you want to charge a pound for coffee a pound this isn’t Starbucks we’ve always had coffee in the coffee morning for 50p and it was nicer it was made with milk not water and now you are moving the time of...

    A dental technician rips up a postcard of dental puns Have you known the suffering wrought by damaged mouths? Or the solemn joy of healing? Have you reckoned with the uses of dental records? Think through the murdered and the long dead; think of things unspeakable and unspoken. This very morning I crafted a perfect palatal obturator and pictured its recipient’s first bite of apple, her first easy breath, and long-captive words leaping from her, exuberant and vital. And must I now come home to this? Or possibly, I hear better educated versions of these day after day after day. Or perhaps, I’ve snapped braces, I’ve shed blood and had the stupidest of stupid arguments with that attractive new nurse. And the sneers of ‘real medics’. And that parking ticket! They don’t give them to those superior beings crowned with their flashy lights. Or maybe, You abscess pits! You subhumandibles! I’ll denture pride, I’ll rearrange your morals. Gum on, brace yourself for the unpalatable...