“You can call me Mr. S,” my ninth-grade biology teacher told the class on our first day, “for the sssss a snake makes.” Eyes sunken behind wirerimmed glasses, he had a wide mouth with no lips that I recall, and long, stubble-blue cheeks like leather stretched tight to the bone. While he lectured, a red…
We made the heads of Styrofoam
so not to be too heavy on their frail necks.
Hearts? Simply-fashioned, from lumps of stone.
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
The fluttering ribbon of blue
outside my window deepens
but holds fast to the birches.
My friend the tarot reader repeats,
but she is a little drunk,
translucent fingers unfurling,
while shade, levered by branches,
Above the house a low sun like a wrecking ball,
the world at the horizon splintered like a Rothko
I want to feel
the warm milk of your smile.
I want to see your reflection
in the moon’s mirror, polished like spring bones.
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
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
Keith Moul is a poet of place, a photographer of the distinction of place. His digital photos strive for a colourful vision with their high contrast and saturation. Both his poems and photos are published widely and available on his website, http://poemsphotosmoul.blogspot.com. Lost Lip (2012) The Arches Provincial Park, Newfoundland Ran Out of…
Josephine Greenland is a British-Swedish writer holding an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham. A prose writer at heart, she is currently working on her first novel. When not writing, she can be seen wandering in the mountains or playing her violin. U-nomia A biological cartographer in a bracken of unclassifieds…