I stood at the bus stop, waiting for the number 17 into Birmingham city centre. I had been waiting for over 20 minutes, and the queue at the stop had now built up to well over 20 people. I can drive, but car ownership had lost its appeal. I was tired of having to cart…
a frieze of lacemakers
intricately at work
beneath the bay’s
array of scintilla –
half six stampedes into our room
where we stretch across the kingsize,
urban sprawl nibbling at the greenbelt.
‘Your place or mine?’ he typed, adding then deleting a winky face and pressing send.
‘Neither,’ she replied very quickly, adding ‘obviously.’
The goats have come down
from the hills today.
Blood orange, the pith and peel of it,
sluicing into nails and the cuts
I hadn’t known were there.
I’ve tried planting potatoes since you left,
but they never grow the way they did for you.
We are looking for names,
that a laughing god
could call us by.
When did writing
become such a warm meeting place?
I was born in the eye of a koláček––
my jelly center plucked from the trees
in my grandparents’ backyard
Hamamatsu: home of unagi pie –– a biscuit made of eel.
Iwakuni: bridge of Samurai –– beer with strangers under blossom.
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.