Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gordan Struić
To no one
After
you deleted
your profile,
I had
no number.
No email.
No name
to search.
Just
a blinking cursor
where you
used to reply.
Still —
I kept
writing.
Sometimes
just:
“Hi.”
Or
“Would you have answered
today?”
Or
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Or
“This morning hurt more
than usual.”
I never
hit send.
I never
had to.
They ended up
where you used to be.
And maybe
that’s enough
to keep
the silence warm.
Gordan Struić is a poet and writer from Zagreb, Croatia. He writes at the edge of signal and silence, where unsent messages, ghosted chats, and invisible departures echo longer than words. His work appears or is forthcoming in 34th Parallel, Voidspace, Beyond Words, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Prosetrics Magazine, among others.
Peter Eustace
Demise We had a lovely time At the horror-house. I don’t quite remember When, now, only That it was the last day The flowers bloomed And the bluebells all but rang. It was like attending A colourfully black funeral. There was a bite to eat And...
Elisabeth Sennitt Clough
everyone’s version of heaven is different i’ve given up self-medicating with fluffy toy dogs and texts from sermonising men who tell me the average person speaks eleven million words a year there isn’t really an average though it’s their way of...
Hélène Demetriades
Weekly ritual Bathrooms were white, in a row, no radox cartons or bottles of Ulay, no toothbrushes sharing a pot on shelves, no trappings of family to wrap round these unparented children not allowed to wash their own hair. And they laughed at Goldballs...
Maurice Devitt
Détente When I arrived home, the cat was already packing, said she had had enough – if not in so many words – stole a last glance at her coat in the bedroom mirror and left. Not as much as a purr for a week, though we noticed on Whatsapp she had...
Sally Evans
Happy Verges These happy verges in rough grass that claimed us, flowers on the weeds where birds’ nests brim with delicate eggs where all adventures end in fields of germinating seeds while I alone forever wander I would not wish this journey...
Jean O’Brien
Crux I was dreaming my real self when I woke with a jolt, had just slipped out of my seventh skin was approaching the nub of the thing. Like a chrysalis from ‘Khrusos’ meaning gold and holding S.O.S within it, I was slowly unpeeling my wings,...
Maggie Mackay
I Keep Dreaming of my Scarab Pendant You know me by my tooth enamel. I am skull, death in gold and malachite, cinnebared by rising suns, blood’s zest. I am woman of silence and feathers, moaning at the king’s touch, screaming to the gods at my...
Jonathan Totman
The Remnants It started with the usual sorts of beautiful trinket - flowers, feathers, pebbles in the rough and wonky shape of things - collected into shoe boxes, or lost beneath the car seat on the journey home. And we didn't think much of the...
Gareth Writer-Davies
The Cutters It's the clatter I hear first of metal tooth biting down scything sharp through the wildings. The most stupid way to die is flaying by hedge cutter. So I wave my arms and jump and the two farmboys with grins like soldiers pause the grinders...