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.
Paul Connolly
At Aber Falls
he felt nothing
water sheeted
past grottoes
snakes of tributary
lazed along
Cindy Botha
I notice her because she doesn’t have a dog
in an afternoon of dog-walkers
Alex Josephy
the goddess of the library
extends in cloth-bound curves
along a lettered shelf
Ben Banyard
There were hundreds of them, all in period costume,
each generation explained who they were,
queued like at a wedding reception to greet us.
Lindsay McLeod Espinoza
Venus passed over the south node of the Moon today
Ilse Pedler
She offered up her linen bag to me, said
pick a shell my lady and I’ll tell your fortune
Sue Butler
Squirrels have beheaded all my parrot tulips
and the supermarket is out of chilli, also tabasco sauce.
Cormac Culkeen
the sun is a
white coin
lifted
from the sea
Maurice Devitt
Yes, you gave us your elegant hands
and capricious smile, but as I make my way
to the chiropodist this morning,
it’s your feet I’m thinking of . . .