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      Self portrait as Blackpool I am towering tall enough to ride The Wild Mouse. A cockle-hearted donkey named for a flower that doesn’t grow in sand. My bridle is so pretty, red with tin bells but my sea is impossible always out of reach or crashing...

      Being Changed I am sap breathtake sound of another day a little door swinging with breezes looking for a superpower in this implacable taxed body like all our devices sending signals emojilike to impossible objects thinking we shall be changed in...

      Sand Angels Sand angels are ghosts we make while still living— giant stick birds all wings and no feet     Gordon Taylor (he/him) is a queer poet who walks an ever-swaying wire of technology, health care and poetry. His poems have...

      Waterlogged In the tight clench of hormone-drunk years the shape of skin and skeleton just sinks your flooded self, all bogged with life’s full stops and every-day disaster. And so it seems the house is porous – our bricks that promised...

      Pause a crow much wet by rain falling in massive subtractions almost a dark shadow perched on a wire with washings beak dripping words now halted by fatigues of itineraries neck subdued by water’s weight feathers drizzling alone looked straight...

        Such a Victorian The bird that flutters reaches out Into time; knee-deep in nerve gas, At the cemetery gates, the children play Like half-opened flowers on a breeze; but, Deep in the coffers beneath that layer of non- Sense all along the...

      Diagnosis I make lists for her, fill in the calendar, get her to keep a diary. She’s knitting again, a scarf to start with, reading now too - hides her romances amongst the bedsheets in the linen basket. She stumbles, says, Doris when she means...

      i don't need to puncture my body or stain my face or pour bleach on my scalp to feel beautiful.     kelsey blacklight (@slntstrwbrry) is a writer from the USA. They have appeared in wingless dreamer and enjoy guacamole, live music, and...

      Sari shop, Easton A step through a doorway An overnight ‘plane journey A month’s ship voyage Easton to Lahore By pushing open a door. A woman closer to death than birth Lies swaddled in the corner Atop a pile of rainbow-plush rugs Princess and the...

    Bridges They push forward, vibrating in their ecstatic skirmish, voices unified over gang choruses, clenched fists raised toward the ceiling. They might glimpse us, on the cusp stage lights’ sweep, hidden like old toys. We’ll be softly nodding our heads...

    THINGS I REGRET. A professor. My love. Another professor. Her caste. Two countries. Not sure which one. Not eating on time. Not doing sprints. The girl in the street I broke a wind chimer of. Hotel rooms. Not raising voice. Vaccines but unrecognised....

    i collect items left behind by ex-boyfriends as if they are souvenirs i count myself lucky and hold my breath in the shower to practice peace on days that feel like a blister i know somewhere children are laughing and you are folding your favourite pair...

      Kleptomaniac  Lover, all my life I've been lightfingered to the nth degree finagling what wasn't mine, some rings and lipstick, once a dress her sun-drained hair, a hidden glance two books I loved yet never read family heirlooms, happiness (all...