Today’s choice

Previous poems

Gail Webb

 

 

 

Something Missing

He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.

He butchers with hammer, saw.
No nightmares, though he says
it’s possible-you could wake
in the middle of the operation,

stirred by loud banging. I advise
him to knock me out good
and proper. We both know the truth,
he will take something from me,

cut flesh away, file bone, move
kneecap, sever nerves, tendons.
He promises to replace pain
with a super joint, a hero.

I come round, crying, smell
of blood and piss. The body knows
muscle and bone are gone.
For months, messages arrive

in my brain, something’s missing.
He does not acknowledge,
it’s part of my DNA now, this loss.

 

Gail Webb is a Bridport Prize short-listed poet. Gail facilitates creative writing at Maggies Centre and in her local community. Her current work focuses on grief, resilience, climate crisis, human connections to the natural world.
Insta: poetry_cocktail

Magnus McDowall

We rolled out on Seven Sisters Road,
two crates of Tyskie empty in my stairwell.

We were talking from the chest, walking backwards
crackling air above our heads like streetlights

Sarah Boyd

He’s a house of cards, a delicately balanced pyramid
held together by hearing aids and dusty bifocals and
wobbling dentures and ageing pacemaker and
shirt with three buttons missing in action and

Samantha Carr

You became obsessed with nucleated red blood cells when you peeked through an
aperture window at your liquid, viscous nature. You became obsessed with maps

Helen Akers

we’re trying to construct a frame for this
‘highly reactive impulsive emotion’
the nurse is looking into it   

Jenny Robb

By the light of a wolf moon,
my father turns mad.
Anne whispers to a girl in the wind,
and a friend blows into my life.