Not the boring twin.
Not even benign.
This is a proper island:
rocks, foghorn, lighthouse.

      Jacob Burgess Rollo is a poet and prose writer based in Dorset, his work is featured in From the Lighthouse and Avant Cardigan, a zine he founded with friends. He has an English Literature BA from Durham and is going on to study for a master's in...

we walk through the exhibition hall lost
amongst water-logged bones, a sunk haul lost

It is late at night and the kettle is boiling,
a quire of steam fanning out in the white kitchen
you are holding me as if I were your girl again

It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath.

Hey cat, you’re doing really well,
three fields stalked and only one to go.

. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .

My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.

To impress you, I became

a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon

marching down the page.