Interior My dear, I washed you out of my sheets. And now I sleep softly in them. My dreams are sweet and free. I opened the windows to air out your smoke. I liked it for a while, how it held the past in its wispy fingers. I emptied your cigarette butts from my ashtray. The Cuban one, heavy. Remember? It waited a half-life for you. I scoured your dense coffee from my cups. You broke one. Elegant, with painted roses. It doesn’t matter. I threw away your shoes. Every time, you left a pair behind, like two footprints in ancient rocks. I put back the furniture you’d rearranged, restored my writing corner. Low sun streams in, now we’re past the Equinox. And still, my love, our dead skin cells persist. We mingle in the house-dust, dancing in the slow winter sunlight.     Bel Wallace's poetry has been short-listed for the Bridport Prize, nominated for the Pushcart and published in a range of journals, most recently Anthropocene, Magma and Under the Radar. She's...

I start the day early with a cup of tea.
A new diary asks I make an affirmation,
while cleaning my teeth.
I have nothing to offer –

No Nordmann firs in Bethlehem.
No holly or ivy. But pomegranate,
almond, fig and olive trees to anoint
with signs of blessing and peace.
And houses don’t smell of Balsam

The village is made of darkness and wood smoke
and the hunting owls sounding from the garrigue.

Today I am in church again. I have come for silent reflection in one of my favourite seats, but it feels a little closer to the edge than usual.