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.
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.
LGBT Feature with Elizabeth Gibson, Jay Whittaker and Rob Miles
Syncing
Butch elegy
If he asked about the grave
LGBT Feature with Jaime Lock and Simon Maddrell
Transmasculine kiss
To The Committee on Homosexual Offences
LGBT Feature with Helen A Porter, Kat Dixon and Milla van der Have
i told her she had plum cheeks
(poly)grammatical gymnastics
girl wild moon
LGBT Feature with Godelieve de Bree, Casey Garfield and Anna Maughan
buffoon
untitled exhale
To My Child
Sophie Kearing
sometimes i miss
those carefree days
of driving around
listening to crucial conflict…
Alison Jones
Each year I am looking for signs,
a white pebble, a dropped feather,
shy shadow’s shape, red thread burning…
Nigel King
Convolvulus strangles
cow parsley and nightshade.
Its pure white trumpets plead:
Forgive us! Look how lovely we are…
Eve Chancellor
Payday Mid-afternoon and the streets smell of petrichor; people spilling out of pubs, crowding to smoke cigs in the early spring sunshine. I am alone, again. All my friends live thousands of miles away. I am closer to the people who are not near me...