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      Yearnings StJohns won’t let the crowlight in, only sparrowbeams and antdark. StJohns is over-alive with noise – day and night, it never stops. Owlish stuffs her ears with balled-up toilet paper, buries her head under the sofa cushions. Dadward’s...

      The Tuesday the world changed for aardvarks I never liked rain. And today it raged. Flooded into the sand that is our bed. It drenched the warm corners where I cuddle with Bert away from daylight. The ants ran from it and I was unable to resist...

      The Rose Queen Even now, looking at the photos I cannot see myself there, on the edges heels on the curb, with my sister, watching the queens on walking day take a lead behind the mounted police. The brassed bands, the drums the beat and blow of...

      From Lines by Kenneth Patchen #48 ‘Yet there will be peace in certain parts of the city; sonnets dripping like moss from the walls; women holding their gifts out, arms, thighs, their quick song…’ — Kenneth Patchen, ‘The Hunted City’ This body of...

      Discussing Maternity Leave He sits behind his desk, hands folded across his belly, frowning over his expensive specs. His eyes, his shiny crown, his wedding ring. Oh My God, I think. Is he visualising it? Me, shagging? Does he think I’ve neglected...

      FAGGOT pt2 I am more than my shoes, Even the black boots I wear Day in day out to work rubbed smooth on the soles. I am more than the cheap-end shirts That hide my tits and that you Frown at, openly, at the shop, the park, On the bus after a long...

      Into the Orkney Sky That spring, I learned how to fly. Willed my small arms hollow, thrust them into a long coat and made wings as the wind rose from plaintive selkie cry to fury’s register. I spread myself gull-like into the sea’s salt-feathered...

      Grandmother during the war Turn to the afternoon sun, boys, turn to the cobalt sky, but shield your faces from the blast and smoke. Your grandmother is planting sunflowers early this year; three in each pot for luck. The glass in her greenhouse is...

    Andrew McDonnell writes poetry and short fiction. His debut collection The Somnambulist Cookbook (Salt) was published in 2019. He lives in Norwich but works in Peterborough to ensure a long commute in which he can write things that are not emails.  ...

      Point Nemo And once more you descend like captain Nemo to the depths of the planet’s tears. Torch in hand, you search the silty sea floor for any signs of life in the bleach-white corals. You search to the solo choir of a sperm whale echoing...

      You should never be disappointed by weather You should never be disappointed by weather, just accept it for what it is, it won’t lie to you or let you down. It’ll tell you, just by looking at it: you need a brolly, or a sun hat. Pack the factor...

      Grease 2 the sidewalks are shoveled but there you are in the middle of the road as always you trudge through a river of maple syrup and the delivery truck comes ever closer   Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and...

      Lampedusa  I know this is risky and that I will probably lose the boat, but the shipwrecked on board are exhausted, I will bring them to safety.  Video released by Sea-Watch, Guardian   For the 43 souls waiting in the port; for lampas the torch,...

      circumference words do not suit do not fit the towns i travel to i’ve this habit of locating new neighbours with different physiognomies * always there are uniforms on the march intractable comic heroes in animal disguises      i say very little i...

      Alone at the New Road Hotel He is right to suspect me of  infidelity, there will be other rooms, there have been rooms before. At the old textile factory turned hip hotel, in Whitechapel’s tatty bravado, as the brutal heat is sucked from the day...

      A Jar of Honey Would Give the Poem Away instead let’s ponder the idea    stay silent let the flowers of the fields come into your vision lavender   thyme   verbena breathe in their scents    let them speak to your senses    tease your nostrils   ...