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      IN EVERY OVAL A FACE When you drew lines in the sand with your long white cane the lesson was that faces can be found just about anywhere. All they need is a frame. And there it was, just needed you to accentuate the slanted brows with a deft...

      TENTH VIEW OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS Araucania, Chile, 1800 AD This is no job for the young, Melipal; only old women like me will go on using one dream to explain another in this language twisted like dry tree roots. Your five lights have watched us...

      Offices matins as the sun thinks of rising i whisper good morning god into my pillow. lauds i splash well water three times on my face as a tonic & walk out into the day; out into the cloister, into the wind, into the world. prime i butter...

      Property 26-2-24 After West Bank settlement marketing event… in New Jersey. Some old masters may have operated in good faith: unclear how they made their riches. Financial reports, always came back black, boxes of darker bodies conjuring profit....

Chances I had nothing to lose, so I took a chance. Then a few more, like a squirrel, darting for them and then racing back. And now winter is passing, joy has had a surplus this season, and I've got my small feast of fate's dividends.   Vidushi Rijuta (she/her)...

The Crofton Road home team play football with the moon They have no kit to speak of but compensate with unshakeable belief they’ll ace the cup. With this in mind, they’ve got young Sharkey Thompson up in goal. Starts well. McGarry heads a blinder, slips – a fatal...

      His Nose is so Visible Against the Midnight Blue The moon is a Punch in the sky. A boy is carrying a bruise. And nobody is talking to either of them about ordinary things. She says she cannot trace the shape of the puppet you are seeing in...

      Cunning These things I know, and in knowing, can do; I am able, and my ability like my anatomy is deceitful. Canniness is seeing illusion not sin in the tip of the tongue the curve of the eye; the bodies like mine whipped for their wits. It is...

      The Stopping Thing after Wanda Coleman You wrestle the car seat’s five-point harness, scrabble for a foothold in the new life. The baby has thin hair and flaky skin like age — this daughter dished up fresh out of my body to gaze clear-eyed at air....

      We Need to Talk about Shoes The right shoes for work, party, funeral. The right shoes for 2023, with heels not worn down last century, like sister Jo’s shit-brown Mary Janes, passed on by Aunt Jess in pristine pasteboard box. Each clipped step,...

      Grandad keeps pigeons and canaries in the same cage. He has never hurt me. He probably could, so I follow, skipping moss stuffed cracks in the concrete path, the bolt is secured with wire, the padlock hangs uncoupled. Green paint patchworks the...

      In stream (after Zaffar Kunial’s ‘This in Land’) That way a river crimps eddies in its skin is this matter of my unreliable breath. That way leaves spin, pause, spin on again is as much constancy as we should expect. That way an eel suspended in...

      Birdsong You’d come in the front door and whistle, I’d be upstairs and whistle back like a pair of tits sounding a return to the nest, our intuitive call and response, a sudden shared slap stick rousing the dog from its daydream, like two trainee...

      In My Last Phone Call Did I say it looks like rain? I meant the sky is black with a thirst only crying can quench, clouds smothering the hills. Did I say this was my home? It was a mistake. The walls are collapsing even as I paint myself into a...

      Three Dimensions X There is no evidence anywhere that Albert Einstein ever said the definition of insanity is ‘is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results’ except there he is, all over the Internet, being attributed...

      On the Ward No place to put a man and hope he'll stay together. The sensible nouns are already exiting the side door. They know things are not right: that a phone charger is not a walnut, that a six-bed ward is not a graveyard. Poor sort of billet...

      Rite Maud Gonne’s grief at the death of her son led her to attempt to conceive another in the child’s tomb. Mausoleum. She puts her tongue against the word. Thinks maudlin. Thinks museum. Thinks her Georges, as darling as a Degas bronze, his...