A Christmas Carol From Ovid
He dumped her by text.
She sat outside Costa and read the message:
“i don’t think we should see each other anymore”
What a dick.
She wasn’t going to let him make her cry.
She started to cry.
As she cried
the tears flowed down her cheeks
in burning rivulets.
As she cried
the tears began to burn away her skin.
Fur pushed towards the surface,
a pair of antlers sprouted,
her nose went red.
She cried and cried
until she had forgotten herself
and off she galloped,
leapt into the night
heading north.
Adam Warne: In the past Adam was part of 28 Sonnets Later and performed at Luton Fringe Festival with The Poetry Choir. He got a degree from UEA, organised cabaret nights and his poetry appeared online and in The Rialto. Following these successes, he’s now employed to push trolleys at Asda.
Afterwards we found
space for whiskey-stained ghosts to pass between our lips.
Tonight we’ll mark the days’ shortness with our breaths
and taught skins. Touching, clouds of whispers dissipate
slow, linger cold as orbs
hung low.
From the pavement, streetlamps pick out laughter with
precision, watch it dance with night ’til we fold mesmerised
by our own noises. Tonight we are caught moving just out
of reach. The cold never felt
so warm.
Zelda Chappel is a poet and occasional photographer living halfway between the city and the sea. Slightly obsessed with fountain pens and tea. Previously published in Popshot, South Bank Poetry and Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual 2012 (and a couple of others).