The colour revealed itself like crab meat
only a wound, something to lick clean
Tag: writing
ONE POEM – Elizabeth Chadwick Pywell
I imagined the horse bolting so it did,
skidded along the canyon’s edge while I watched.
ONE POEM – Rebecca Wheatley
She would never allow a condiment
without a saucer or a spoon,
tea without a pot,
a pop sock and skirt.
ONE POEM – Anna D’Alton
She travels the world, storms the Venice Biennale, exhibits at the Guggenheim, Tate, Pompidou – you name it, parties with the grimy glitterati in LA, Madrid, São Paulo, breaks a Sotheby’s sale record and dazzles the fawning curators and collectors at every chandeliered benefit dinner.
COMFORT FOODS // After the surgery my body longs for by Janet Bi Li Chan
gluey congee cooked with
yellow ginger
salted pork
thousand-year-old eggs
constantly stirred to make sure
it doesn’t stick to the bottom
COMFORT FOODS // A Tamalada by M.A. Dubbs
Mom’s in charge and tells us to watch how it’s done,
tucking and folding
until she holds above our heads, like a baptized child,
our exemplar tamale
“Just like that!” ¡Perfecto!
TWO POEMS – Salvatore Difalco
You reached for the branch
without looking at me as I
signalled you to back away,
to veer away from the tree,
where a snake in full makeup
had hit its mark, awaiting a cue.
Cats Don’t Care About Daylight Savings — Samiha Meah
Last night, I dreamt about them again. All moon-faced and lovely and it stirred that familiar ache.
COMFORT FOODS // He becomes my child by Sarah Terkaoui
We pass plates of kawage, kibbeh, moutabal
between us around the semi-circle of table.
ONE POEM — Terence Dooley
Limonero Moon I had a sour thought, as if I bitinto a lemon, and the bitter mistsettled on my naked eye like dewor vinaigrette: the red eye weptand suppurated, pitying itself.I was a thought ungrateful, a thought sharpand zestless, pithy: what had given methe pip? The cloudy juice ran down my cheek. As in your…
TWO POEMS – Jim Lloyd
Peregrine has put them up;
one, against one thousand. They
need eyes in the back of their head.
His eyes, forwards only, burning
on the brown-gold and white
pulsating flock.
ONE POEM – Clare Starling
And here I am, unsure of my value
Crushing myself through the doors
Ice and dirt crumbling from me
Leaving meltwater on the mat
Porridge 