For those who forego the languor of home ground, that lethal rapine of routine, the most compelling sound of the travelling life might be a ferry’s foghorn throughout the night
Vacant of leaves
and shell-wrapped gifts,
dad and I can see the sky.
the fox and i
shared one glance
i think about it all the time
While I sleep
journey across my bedroom floor.
In lattie we held martinis,
un-clobbered each other –
left our cats on the floor in nishta.
Their guitars stand somewhere in an empty room on American soil
Dust spots in the sun settle on their strings
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison
You make a landscape with tiny things
Turn late-night buns into morning seas
we are wrestling for the same
hooks in time
we are bitter catches
broken holed and punchy
Carly Maria Hubbard earned her BA in Creative Writing from DePaul University. Her poetry has appeared in Crook & Folly, Pentimento, and Hooligan Magazine and her flash fiction in formercactus and Flash Fiction Magazine. She is an accidental one-time winner of the Uptown Poetry Slam and often suspects that the spirit of Lucille Clifton is trying to contact her. Currently, Carly is…
James Carroll is a twenty-three year old English Literature Masters student at the University of Leeds. His work has featured in multiple Leeds art publications, including The Scribe, Heir and his mother’s fridge. He is currently writing a novel about the relationship between sport and men’s mental health, and no poem could ever mean more…