Today’s choice

Previous poems

Steph Ellen Feeney

 

 

 

Ode to Remission

My mother is here, and might not have been,
so I hold things tighter:
the small-getting-smaller of her
running with my daughter down the beach,
every conch and whelk they gather,
the scar tissue just peeking out
of her swimsuit, her phone number
the only one on Earth I know by heart,
the way she watches pelicans dive-bomb
for breakfast like it’s a show she’s got tickets for,
her expectations hovering everywhere –
without them, I’d be so awfully free.

My mother is here, and might not have been,
so we get up early and walk:
the soles of our feet on the shell-shard beach
hurting just the right amount.
We drink too many cocktails.
I let her kiss my curls the same as hers
like I’m still five. We build sandcastles
with my daughter, as far
from the claws of the tide as we can,
as deep-moated as we can,
as tall in their armor of shells as we can,
knowing we will wake to not even a trace of turret.

My mother is here, and might not have been,
so we do it all over again.

 

 

Steph Ellen Feeney was born in Louisiana and raised in Texas and now lives in Suffolk. IS&T was her very first publication in 2021 – a poem called ‘The Brief Invisibility of Fathers’. It will appear in her debut collection which is forthcoming with Broken Sleep Books.

Mirkka Jokelainen

    out for a walk first     come the trees their frames                         different in every season today the blinding brightness of new green cutting through the grim skies then come the houses and their doors       a purple one a turquoise among the...

Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe

      Sea Bed I cannot sleep. Tonight, the invisible crabs are pinching my nightdress, pouring sand into the folds of the cloth. I can not sleep, they say tonight, there are too many fish in the ocean. They are insisting, clicking and pinching,...

Carol J Forrester

      When I Find You In Tesco, Around Half Eleven Tuesday Morning In the canned food section reaching for tinned beans, basket hung from one hand, the other splayed open stretched to the shelf. All of you lifting upwards, feet coming off the acrylic...

Lucy Cage

      It’s Not The End I’m Frightened Of But The Unravelling My cat wobbles from mat to bowl to bed, a wonky sashay from which there’s no recovery. She’s past sunlit sprawls, there’s just skulking, sleeping, the disconsolate matting of fur. Anxieties...

Cara L McKee

      Sometimes I Radiate Sometimes I radiate, clouds form in my hair and you breathe from me. I am beech and birch, I am oak ash scrubland, I am waking up. Since I’ve been planted here I’ve been keen to remind you that I come from elsewhere. I don’t...

Paul Stephenson

      Self-Portrait as Grammar Revision Some of my dogs are rich. I hurry not to buy such expensive cars. The dentist jumps highest and my friends can bark loudly. Today I feel like toothache. For my birthday I would like that tree. I shall come to your...

Karan Chambers

      Stripping the Carcass Stripping meat from the leftover chicken turns my stomach – separating sagging skin from gristle; detaching spinal column from shrivelled vertebrae and bleach-white bone. But I was taught by my mother not to be wasteful, as...

Steve Perfect

      Two close voices 1 If I remember when the full moon rose while sunlight still warmed the evening’s outline from below I don’t picture you in the scene but understand that you were everywhere each closing bud each bird settling to roost each...

Salil Chaturvedi

    Parched sparrow Does it ever happen to you? A sparrow appears in your dreams Beak open, mouth parched Waterless desperation in its eyes Night after night of a parched sparrow You wake up one morning with nothing on your mind except the memory of some dry...