![\"\"](\"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/12\/Web_BirdsOtherLands_0460.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Christmas Party<\/strong><\/p>\n Falling or rising, staring at my feet, St Michael and the seven headed beast He locked the door<\/em> <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Claire Crowther<\/strong> has published three collections of poetry with Shearsman. Her next publication will be a pamphlet of poems on knitting from Happenstance. www.clairecrowther.co.uk<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n His Gun<\/strong><\/p>\n He shoots. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sue Finch<\/strong> grew up in Herne Bay. She now lives with her wife in North Wales and enjoys exploring the countryside and coast. Her first published poem appeared in A New Manchester\u00a0Alphabet<\/em> in 2015 whilst studying for her MA with Manchester Metropolitan University. Her work has also appeared in Ink Sweat and Tears<\/em> and in The Interpreter\u2019s House<\/em>. She tweets as\u00a0@soopoftheday and her blog can be found at: soopoftheday-soo.blogspot.com<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Lodger<\/strong><\/p>\n Every bit of holly another season <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sue Wallace-Shaddad<\/strong> has poems published by The French Literary Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, Poetry Space, The Dawntreader.<\/em>\u00a0 She is studying the Newcastle University\/Poetry School MA in Writing Poetry and is Secretary of Suffolk Poetry Society.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Christmas Party Falling or rising, staring at my feet, being so close to the person who shares the lift \u2013 not wanting to see whose foot fixes against mine, who stops. Look at me, girl, when I\u2019m talking to you. An address to fair game in hell. St Michael […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[97],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18047","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-2018"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18047","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18047"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18047\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18143,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18047\/revisions\/18143"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18047"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18047"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18047"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nbeing so close
\nto the person who shares the lift \u2013
\nnot wanting to
\nsee whose foot fixes against mine, who stops.
\nLook at me, girl,<\/em>
\n when I\u2019m talking to you.<\/em> An address to
\nfair game in hell.<\/p>\n
\njoin their battle
\nin the lift of heaven, from where a beast
\nmust fly or fall
\nas must a boy who is feather-winged and
\ncontented with
\ndecapitating seven snarling heads.
\nWe overlap
\nin a world of falling angels: heads, jaws,
\nclaws, toes, tongues, swords.
\nWatch wings and tail make one oval, Michael\u2019s
\ncloak wrap lightly
\nround the dragon, her biting with her fourth jaw
\nsince her sixth and
\nseventh heads are severed. Barbara,
\nsaint of arms, here
\nwhere your sanctioned guns tumble down, hear who
\nfelled me head first.<\/p>\n
\n and turned the music up. My drink was spiked<\/em>
\n with Quaaludes or<\/em>
\n something. They queued outside.<\/em> Mike is no saint,
\nthat tale\u2019s a myth.
\nIf I drop, my family fails with me,
\ntheir future falls
\nprey: kneel, pray for all drunk stumbling men.
\nThey laughed so much.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nShe is falling,
\nstaggering,
\nclutching herself.
\nHer hip seems to disappear,
\nshe stumbles, hits the floor, stills.
\nHe watches
\nso silent he stops the air from moving.
\nher closed eyes flicker to find him.
\nHe searches his words.
\nThey both stare at it hanging from his limp hand.
\nHe meets her gaze, speaks:
\nIt\u2019s just a banana, he tells her.<\/p>\n
\nevery red berry
\na sharp reminder
\nof pain
\nand pleasure
\nas Christmas moves in<\/p>\n
\nof good will
\nstrained cheer
\nmince pie indulgence
\nbefore this guest
\nbows out to New Year.<\/p>\n