The inventor’s wife predicts a storm Each coming storm, I’m alone, love. I take to bed as my blood constricts, is corseted by whalebone. I blot the sky with clouds of my own invention and watch the day run like a shawl’s pulled thread,...

      The Stack We hold our dead like chairs hold chairs further and further off the floor until one holds no more.     Tristan Moss lives in York with his partner and two youngish children. He has recently had poems published in London...

      Sister Death Sits on the Back of the Settee It shouldn’t be such a surprise. She knew me better than most people, after all. So cosy. And yes, in the womb I gobbled her up and thought I’d won. But you forget such things. Behind me like a pantomime...

      I Fall in Love with a Tree Everywhere I Go  When I shut my eyes all I see is the sky hung with oranges like a dozen orange golf balls; the tree itself on display like a circus animal. I am where the palm trees rise and fall on the horizon; where...

      Morning Conversations Every Gulmohar flower is a vermillion cup of the night’s sweet nectar that drenches the birds’ parched songs. Every branch is a perch for daylight to scout, to rest and to tread lightly without leaving prints. The parrots...

      Sonata for the Dead (After Li Shangyin) Crows pick at the rotting bones of skeletons who gaze with sightless eyes at the stars, where our dreams abide, but never come alive. Crows, seeking somewhere to feed, scatter like fallen leaves, as wind...

      Fish-Tale   She gorged on forests, gluttonous for the town, craved torchlit streets every time she went back to normality.  She swapped her tail for a man washed up on the shore along with the shingle, salt-seaweed, and crab-carapace. She burns...

      The Love Poems I finally took the trash out, sent that email, and had enough clean dishes to eat a meal at the table but there was no time to write the poem Before you woke up this morning I slipped into the cool autumn air in search of the...

      Simulacra I was six when I shifted a curtain in a dark room at the waxwork museum and peered through glass at a woman I remember hooks and chains her tattered skirts pale lips crimson stains I thought of her first time I lifted black tarpaulin...