Today’s choice
Previous poems
Carson Wolfe
At Casa Diablo: Portland’s World Infamous Vegan Strip Club
I owned a g-string like this,
the back connected by a rhinestone butterfly.
Starved myself at school to save
my dinner money, bought it from Poundland.
Prized, peeping above my gym shorts on the netball court,
bewitching the boy sat behind me in chemistry.
When Kacy ran away from home she admired the satin cerise,
slutty Swarovski glittering my underwear drawer.
This time, she said, I’m not going back. I never saw inside her house
but I know there was a blue room, I know what happened in it.
We hid from her curfew in Gorse Hill Park, her puffa coat
snagged by brambles as she crouched to claw her way into a bush;
that’s when I saw it, the glint of my butterfly on her tailbone,
twinkling in the ray of my torch beam—I walked off, left her there.
Now I’ve lived a decade beyond her death
this is how she comes to me
in the angel pop of something delicate
catching the light.
Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet and Grand Prize Winner of The Disquiet Literary Program 2024. Their work has appeared with POETRY, The Rumpus, The Common, and Rattle. In 2023, they won New Writing North’s Debut Poetry Prize, received awards from The Aurora Poetry Prize, The Edward Thomas Fellowship, and were longlisted in The Poetry Society’s National Competition. They are the author of two chapbooks, Boy(ish), and Coin Laundry at Midnight. Their debut full collection Gone Thing is forthcoming with Write Bloody UK in 2027.
Diane Webster
Squirrels dream of a cougar,
a cougar given permission
to crouch like an assassin
awaiting its prey . . .
Bill Jones
Three jackdaws walked widdershins
around the birdfeeding station.
Zumwalt
I see
how you see
us in meetings:
merchandise
to slip
off
the shelf.
Anya Reeve
Stubborn, we closed our fists
To better ward away the brume
John Grey
it’s more
of a gathering
than a town
Antony Dunn
Have you heard the one about
how I’m hoping to bow out –
playing guitar for the Cure
Alex Scarborough
I measure distance in Spotify playlists
so I can’t be trusted with maps.
Myra Schneider
Forget the invisible network of servers which stores
and manages or mismanages data in the unending sky
far above our heads . . .
Sef
The body is not solid. The body is almost perfect.