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.

Philip Rush

      The Last Carthusian The large metal bell with which I call myself to prayer is wanted by a museum. I sing in an affected accent the responses to the psalms but the jackdaws which laugh at me from the roof are not fooled. In a refectory which is...

Julia Stothard

      Heartland I am growing grass inside my ribs; fluted blades twisting their leading edge in meadows of flesh. There are fields of this. Where the lark has left, the wind gusts through – I have become its hollow short-cut and you are corridors...

Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana

      Realisation about a friend slowly and deliberately you draw information out of me the way my son eats a strawberry holding firmly onto the green stem sucking it down to the pulp     Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana lived in Japan for 10...

Liz Lefroy

      Egg Inside, it’s containment: a smooth shell curving away into itself, taut around a thin membrane which closes on its viscous, one-celled strength; and it’s a silent circling of mass, unused to air, unexposed to the risk of strange heats, to the...

Mary Wight

      Feasting She brought thoughts, words rather than grapes, slipped out among laundered clothes. Little offerings best but today he wanted more and she couldn’t deny him. Her tongue spilled stories he devoured, egged her on until the cough again,...

Dave Stacey

      Morning has broken Please bear with me one tiny moment while I try to explain: listen: a speck of a half-fledged sparrow doesn’t sit at the top thin twig of a late winter tree and throat his half-formed song for all he is worth, which isn’t that...

David Belcher

      I’m worn out by talk of devastation I walk out the door, turning back to twist the key in the sticky lock. On the street my first impulse is to look around, tilt my ear to the faintest sounds, summon a semblance of optimism; but looking for the...

Wayne F. Burke

      I Know Rainy Nights the wet cold touch the splatter and drip in wind swept mist and black as pitch streets lit by red and green scrawls and torches of scalding headlights.     Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and...

Katherine Stockton

      Hibernation Girl I feel the summer days in winter & winter days through summer. In transitional seasons I do nothing at all but revise how to survive. How easy it is to transmute between you and the next love that I can already see coming. As...