Today’s choice
Previous poems
Meg Pokrass
Cat Swarm
This is what happens when she sits alone in her dining room, eating smoked trout and canned sardines. Twelve cats who are molting arrive as a sweet surprise. They smell the flavor and here they are. Now there’s cat fur everywhere. It covers her couch like a winter coat. Empty boxes of cat food line the walls of her apartment, and her adult son threatens to send her to a shelter. “No more cats, Mom,” he says, but she ignores him. “We all have less fur,” she whispers to the cats as she brushes them. Her own fur rises and floats like the fluff of a dandelion caught in the wind.
Meg Pokrass is the author of First Law of Holes: New and Selected Stories (Dzanc Books, 2024) and eight previous collections of poetry and prose. Her work has appeared in RATTLE, Waxwing, One Art: A Journal of Poetry, Cottonmouth, New England Review, Plume, The Pedestal, American Journal of Poetry, Electric Literature and elsewhere. Meg lives and writes in the Scottish Highlands.
Clare Currie on Mother’s Day
After learning about the maternal instincts of seals, I took to listing postpartum offensives
Charlie Hill
What was he running from?
Well what have you got:
the blood-soaked news of course,
theme parks, leaf blowers, HR,
but also the language . . .
Jane Wilkinson on International Women’s Day
Queen Conch
My spirit animal is a sovereign sea snail. A part-time anchoress,
anchored to her cell.
Jenny Moroney
Clogged heavens
the aeroplanes criss-cross through
what was imagined there
Marc Janssen
Took a needle to a dictionary.
It dispersed like confetti . . .
Edward Vanderpump
The bridge is beyond the city.
I don’t know anything about the war.
Ships cannot come here on account of the war.
Glenn Hubbard
The cart stands axle deep in seething water.
The blade emerges from the foam, its load
bituminous and black . . .
Kushal Poddar
The child resurfaces.
The morning has no colour yet.
Philip Rösel Baker
He allows the sound to pour
through invisible canals inside his body,
outpacing dull analysis,
quickening cells, illuminating mind,
like blinds lit from within.