Today’s choice
Previous poems
Rebecca Cohen
Why don’t you eat pork?
If you don’t believe in God, my friend says,
why don’t you eat pork?
I have no answer for her. I have only
the blue-tacked mezuzah stuck to the doorway of my bedroom,
the dried wax still wedged in stubborn clots
on each branch of a bronze menorah,
the framed parsha, hooked onto a bent nail
crowding the far wall of my living room.
I have only the memory of a six-year-old
who sat on the floor at Ohel Leah
and hummed along to the davening,
cradling a wooden cat in her lap.
Her braided hair was longer than mine, her eyes wider.
But my mother always says, if she squints,
we share the same smile.
Rebecca Cohen is a poet based in London. Her work has appeared in West Branch, Across the Margin, and The Lincoln Review and she received her MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London.
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.
Seán Street
We lit a candle for you
that day in Sacre Coeur,
under its white-flame dome
as high as Paris could go
Marjory Woodfield
On Kinley’s Lane, quince tree, wild blackberries, branches of feijoa reaching over a fence, fallen fruit.
Ian Seed
What was the Welsh for ‘hedgehog’? That was what he wanted to know.
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Rectangular, with corners cut off like an octagon, muddy brown shows through the cream exterior where the edges are chipped.
Cally Ann Kerr on International Transgender Day of Visibility
How many blows does it take to crack an egg?
Is a question I never expected to ask
If you don’t know, I should tell you, an egg
Is what they call the girl inside the male mask
Gita Ralleigh, Julian Matthews, Jackie Taylor on Colouring Outside the Lines
The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna.
Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth.
Sue Moules
I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.
Kevin Denwood
Name called.
Not mine.
Wasn’t I
here first?