Harvest Festival

maybe they all dream of it –
at night, alone unguarded

of fucking on the altar,
the white cloth torn and puckering

the clatter of silver on stone, the flesh
silk as fruit in their hands.

maybe they look down
at their bodies as they left them

in neat rows, heads of wheat
crackling green and gold,

bound tight and trying so hard
to be good –

maybe they watch the crows
circling the steeple, their voices

huddled in their throats, and will them close,
to beat the windows with their wings

to dive, haloed in bright glass,
to pierce them in their seats –

maybe they dream of the rain,
dream of the feast

Fizz

the selfish houses
raise blank faces
to the shore;

we mutter equitable redistribution
of wealth,
admire the decor –

linger over
smooth countertops and
copper baths

our tongues
curling
to lap around that edge, just there,

to feel it fizz –
like batteries
like new coins

like more salt please, more vinegar,
like licking each finger –
more and more and more.

Hana Wilde is a writer and visual artist from Wales, living in Scotland. Her work has appeared in The Madrigal, Northwords Now, Swim Press, The Arts Territory Exchange and The Learned Pig.