Today’s choice

Previous poems

Abegail Morley

 

 

 

Houseplant daughter
(Non-melancholic depression)
Tonight, my houseplant child asks about sunlight,
brushes my arm as she stutters on the word,
photosynthesis, raises her eyes to the bulb as if to say,
Will that do? I keep the curtains shut all day now.
Everything in the room is artificial: light, tree,
At noon my houseplant daughter converts
carbon dioxide into sugar, and I carry on telling her
about things artificial, colour, I say,
and mime stirring a cake, and hearts,
they can be artificial too. Houseplant daughter
looks sad. So, she says, hearts aren’t real?
They are, I say, but sometimes flowers aren’t.
Houseplant daughter gasps, tugs my sleeve, eyes wet:
she’s spent three whole months waiting to bloom.
I Google life without light, learn all life needs energy.
I can hardly get out of bed. Houseplant asks for water.

 

 

Abegail Morley‘s debut collection was shortlisted for the Forward Prize. Her most recent collections are published by the wonderful Nine Arches Press.

Martin Fisher

Inside, in the half-light, the iron rot took hold.
Forgotten service–obsolete.
Salt-coin neglect.

The money flowed inland,
Moored on an hourglass choke.
No one told the sea.

Amirah Al Wassif

Beneath my armpit lives a Sinbad the size of a thumb.
His imagination feeds through an umbilical cord tied to my womb.
Now and then, people hear him speaking through a giant microphone—
Singing,
Cracking jokes,