Today’s choice

Previous poems

Anna Fernandes

 

 

 

Glove

My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night
on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills
tangled in summer-dried grasses

and snapped seed heads,
pecked at sniffed at and tumbled
among crusty rabbit droppings.

Cuff sheltering tucked-in snails and slugs,
the sweaty polyester fingers grasping at stars,
it held its own sky burial in black air.

Dad went back for it the next day
alone and scolded –
retraced welly-boot steps, sliding

Mom at home vacuuming and never muddied –
must have really cared
about keeping things together

couldn’t bear the loneliness.
It came back triumphant and silvered
with webs and ooze

frosted with damp and moonlight
dark as a late plum –
a different glove.

 

 

Anna Fernandes lives near Bristol and writes about living and mothering through grief and chronic illness. She has recently had work published in Motherlore, The Woolf and Ink and Marrow and was shortlisted for the Laurie Lee Prize for Writing 2024.

Kirsty Crawford

Elizabeth is hiding in the cupboard under the sink
Small enough to fold between cream cleaner and floor polish
Too big to keep elbows away from wire wool

Katie Beswick

You wouldn’t believe how quick they grew —
Our babies were men now. Lifting bags of concrete
they rebuilt cities, slab by slab, reinforcing cracks.

HLR

I find six errors in the proofreading manual & the irony doesn’t tickle me.
I am enraged by typos, poor formatting, missing commas. This is my Big Girl Job,
the one I always wanted —

Angela Howarth Martinot

What seems to be the problem ? He asks
in that slightly condescending tone.
Seems,     I think,      Seems.
It seems, I say,
that I have a problem with my inner fish,

Bianca Pina

My Dad once dismissed a friend as a hypocrite,
which I took to be an induction to the truth.
Lately though, I think the things I love in you
I love because they’re grossly inconsistent.