Today’s choice
Previous poems
Emma Dandy
‘I found it particularly hard as a dad.’
Keir Starmer, Prime Minister’s statement in the House on historic forced adoption
I’ve been staring at the blank page of this notebook for an hour. I close my eyes and breathe in for four, hold for four and out for eight, then repeat three times. I open my eyes, take the lid off my pen and set a timer for fifteen minutes. I need the pressure of a deadline. I start to list the things I wish you would ask me. It’s been three years since I found you, and you haven’t asked a single question about me or my life. It’s been a year since I suggested we meet but you haven’t replied to that email. The timer vibrates. I put my pen down even though I’m in the middle of a sentence. I go to the kitchen to make a coffee, and I think about my father. Every time I ask him what he’s worried about, he laughs and says a problem shared is a problem doubled. After five minutes, I go back to my desk and assess what I’ve written. Twenty questions in neat cursive that morphs into an erratic scrawl; I had so much I needed to get down before my time ran out. I bought this notebook because it’s full of holes; there’s a line of perforations running down the margin of each page, so I can remove my mistakes and pretend they never existed. There’s an arc punctured at the outside corner on the bottom of every page. I like to tear the corners off to remind me how far I’ve made it through. I pull one away. I press it against the roof of my mouth and hold it there with my tongue, so my saliva softens the paper. I rip out more corners, pile them on my tongue and swallow. I tear out the page of questions then place a ruler on the loose page and shred it into strips. I rip each strip into squares that I roll up and layer over my tongue. I close my mouth and swallow. I write diagonally across a fresh page: WILL YOU DIE BEFORE I HAVE A CHANCE TO MEET YOU? I remove the page, scrunch it up whole, cram it into my mouth with my fingers and gag as I push it down my throat.
Emma Dandy‘s poetry explores the fragmentation of identity after trauma. She has been widely published in journals and anthologies including The Ekphrastic Review, Atrium, and The Honest Ulsterman. Emma won the Fish Publishing Haiku Prize 2026. Instagram: @emmadandypoetry
Christtie Jay
My Lord, let the record show
she remembered everyone else
before this. If you must, take her
in teaspoons
May Grier
I wasn’t to know
that it was a three-tusked
beast; that there was not one,
not two, but three
that grew the seed of me.
Daniel Hill
On her first day home, she took
to plucking the sky with tweezers—
latched on to clouds and waited
Sheila Saunders
Which is the subject?
Limp-leaved yucca
reluctantly dying,
the foreground figure
in its stony pot?
Trelawney
What is holding you back from building your wormery?
You can’t say there isn’t the time. Everyone has the time
when it comes to a wormery. Born with the right tools to hand.
David Van-Cauter
…4am and the birdsong begins, a wet January in a new city and I’m alone watching a man in Minnesota, murdered for protecting a woman from a fascist hit squad. . .
Tim Dwyer
Unexpectedly
My neighbour
opens her window
for fresh salty air
Paul Moclair
Their shore leave over,
. . . the spirits of the dead are bid farewell
until that time next year, when ritual
grants them reprieve again.
Susan Elizabeth Hale
Sometimes words are the only thing
that get you through,
But not the words you think,
not a word like love or hope
those are imprecise.