Bryan Marshall

    The Lung Men Look at the faint rain twisting itself into the ground, making dry things resign themselves to different states of damp. Watch silent doors opening, closing, think of climbed stairs, rooms reached. Hear minds unslam, shadows chewing soft...

Dawn Sands

Interview Response after Yaël Farber Nothing I can tell you to answer your question — all I can muster is that it was that production of King Lear, Edgar emerging raw and fresh and naked from the storm, unrecognisable even to himself, his father blind and suicidal but...

Christian Donovan

Small hours chat (after The Poet or Half-past Three by Marc Chagall 1911-12) O celebrated bard, you should know espresso mixed with drags of Gauloise won’t steady your head. Your pondweed face betrays chaos, lays bare a wretched heart, while cubist-dissected skin...

Shamik Banerjee

Half Past Eleven Much like a burnt-out farmer flumping down upon his ache-allaying, tender bed past toiling in the unforgiving sun, Ma does the same when stove-led tasks are done, heat-pillaged, sapped, and flabby at the head, with arms full splayed. Throughout her...

Rose Lennard

Lot’s Daughters Visit Their Mother Each year we climbed to that place high above the ruins. The first time, our almost-twins bundled in shawls, we found her tall, unyielding, testament to all those she had loved and known: kith, kin, home: the cursed we left behind....