Hattie Graham

      Poem for my Father Come away Simon, away to the woods with us. Leave your shoes by the stairs and follow our feet to the bridge. The dog is scared of the burn so won’t bite your fingers when you cross. We can sleep in the treehouse and wait for...

George Parker

    In My Hand I Hold Two Truths I make broth, feel odd wiping it off your face moments after swiping through bodies, preferences, dates. Sunset-orange forget-me-nots mar the napkin cloth I dab along your stubbled jaw. If forget-me-nots bloomed blood orange....

Nicolas Spicer

      Paysage Moralisé There’s more to this three-foot square: lilac vetch & vermilion field-poppies, some sort of crucifer spreading its yellow legs for an evening damp enough to be hot; opposite, big-box retail, facing away to heavens dreamt...

Luke Bateman

      Saint Brendan Brown limpets with tonsured heads creeping over the fish-stink isle, spongy underfoot, seaweed for grass. At the head, fire-crowned Brendan his feet licked by waves, knows tidings odd. Is it word from God, or knowing the wrinkled sea...

Adam Horovitz

      A Taste of Apocalypse Such stillness in the air. The attic window is a cupped ear set to alert the house to subtle shifts in atmosphere: auguries; signs; any tiny notice of cataclysmic change. All it amplifies today is a lone jay’s irritated...

Jenny Mitchell

      What Part of Me? Sun demands a front row seat above the graveyard through the trees when my mother’s placed in soil, surrounded by her friends’ small talk – She must have sent the rays for us. Women in their Sunday best, men in greying suits...