Today’s choice
Previous poems
Miriam Swales
STEMs
When I was 12, I knew the weight of a human head.
8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (a bit of dark comedy).
It grew from there. The curiosity. The calculations.
But, perhaps, that’s not true.
4 years before that, The Magic School Bus taught me
the pull of gravity and on which planet I’d rather live –
to be in line with the shapes around me – feminine
and, eventually, desirable. Physics was beyond …
This fed my interest in astronomy – later to be eclipsed
by chemistry. In between the two, I would stand –
back to the sun to see my frame stretch out: long legs
and hands like doughy shadows. If only.
Then came the calculations with fat – before we realised
it was all about calories. And, eventually, I wondered how
many pounds would be subtracted without one, or both,
legs. Like an animal, trapped, I chewed over the idea –
how to fit – lighten the scales. Like Venus. 91% there,
if you’re curious.
If only, like a lizard, I could pull off my limbs – bag them
in temporary storage. Or, be reborn – a rag doll severed
into a new dimension – legs first. Starting or ending there
because, of course, I couldn’t lose my head and still be me.
Miriam Swales is an American-British writer and educator living in Kent. She has been published in IS&T, was highly commended with Primers 2025 (Nine Arches Press), and was longlisted in The Rialto’s Nature and Place Competition (2026).
Jena Woodhouse
Around midnight, the hour when pain
reasserts its dominance, a voice
behind the curtain screening
my bed from the next patient’s:
an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts
Kate Bailey
They’ve mended the park fence again,
patched it over with the usual ugly metalwork,
like a riot barricade.
Ibrar Sami
Across the barren land
where blood once played its savage Holi,
the fearless migratory birds
have returned again.
Anyonita Green
It wobbles slightly, red wine jelly.
I peer at it, nose close enough
to smell the iron, the scent of coagulant,
inhaling through slightly parted lips
Soledad Santana
Seen as she’d hung her cranial lantern
from the roof of her step-father’s garden shed,
the parabolic formula was skipped; like two calves, we followed the fence
to the end of the foot-ball pitch.
Claire Harnett-Mann
Behind the block, the night tears in scrub-calls.
Fox kill scores the morning,
ripped by prints in muck.
Hedy Hume
Stepping into the opposing seat
I smile, and the look I receive
Makes me feel the antisocial one.
Matthew F. Amati
Hands said to Head
look what you’ve made me do
it’s not me, Head said, talk to
Heart, that guy’s sick
Mariam Saidan
‘Female singing constitutes a ‘forbidden act’ (ḥarām),
punishable under Article 638 of the Islamic Penal Code.’