Today’s choice
Previous poems
Khairina Anindya, Genevieve Beech
Khair
At the feet
of al-Ka‘ba
you asked for a daughter.
You named me
Khair – Blessing.
I answered
inside you
forcing myself into your ribs
remaking you
in the emptiness of your lungs.
in the space he made—
his shoes
left in the doorway
your words—
not at the tip of your tongue
but caught at your teeth.
imprinting your face and his
I carry you
under my tongue.
Khairina Anindya is an engineer from Indonesia, currently based in the Netherlands. She writes poetry shaped by culture and memory. She enjoys reading across different literary traditions.
BIRTHLIGHT
You are ordinary
to the teenager on the bus,
the doctor at our six-week check.
Everywhere, mothers birth
their own gold-spun miracles
with features much like yours.
But I felt you move,
little wish, inside
my body, inside its mist.
I knew you first as fable,
a not-yet thing darting under skin,
a lantern held in the halfway.
Before I siphoned your light
outside me, and you flickered,
soared, and the world was changed.
Genevieve Beech is the creator of Motherlore Magazine on care, matrescence and ecology. Motherlore can be found in the Women’s Art Library, Goldsmiths, and featured in ‘M(other)ing’ 2025 at Virginia Tech Perspective Gallery. Genevieve enjoys the many veins of bookmaking.
Toby Cotton
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
Ansuya Patel
except this burnt red vase.
Hand shaped in the muffled roar,
devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth.
Hannah Ward
Look, Drew, the
plums are in
pieces beneath
us. I dreamt:
Andrea Small
a flower is not a heron
does not stand on one leg
spear-billed over golden carp
Usha Kishore
At dawn and dusk, my father
becomes a chant, that flies above
the courtyard of the old house
Jane Frank
The leaves are a colour you’ve never seen
but that I will learn to expect
and there’s a fracas-induced full moon
Clara Howell
The way a halved peach breathes, then rots
from the inside out.
Luigi Coppola
Out of ten bars, by the fifth, half of us had flickered
out and by this ninth one, it ended up just him
and me. A matchstick balanced on a stool, he sat
Jon Wesick
Loaded with hawks’ cries and horses’ huffs
Ennio Morricone’s score wails