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).

Gemma Blakeley

My Dad Complains That The Hedges Are Overgrown

and the word bemuses me, implying as it does
the concept of excess in what can only be good.

Nick Cooke

Molluscous receivers, would that you could
turn your talents inwards, and pick up
all that goes on in the cerebral swamp . . .

Siân Bentham

She doesn’t know what she is doing.
She chops and boils, snacks and sneezes, sits.
Classical radio plays, imbuing
the scene with comic dignity and wit.