Dog-tooth 73

May 22, 2018

Call me a feral thing
No i don’t want to sit next to you
i wanna bite the hands
That have felt me
Fed me
Fucked a not-me

Prairie M. Faul
(from Burnt Sugarcane – Glo Worm Press)

Blessing the Boats

May 22, 2018

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear

may you kiss
the wind then turn from it

certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

Lucille Clifton

You Are Oceanic

May 21, 2018

clinging umbilical
& needy I lay

in a puddle dim
& shallow inside

my mother
a different cold

choking on her
body my noose

she pushed &
strangled me

further into

until doctors
incised through

layers of her

gloved hands
pulled me

out of the womb
alive & furious

Eloise Amezcua


May 19, 2018

Secrecy flows through you,
a different kind of blood.
It’s as if you’ve eaten it
like a bad candy,
taken it into your mouth,
let it melt sweetly on your tongue,
then allowed it to slide down your throat
like the reverse of uttering,
a word dissolved
into its glottals and sibilants,
a slow intake of breath –
And now it’s in you, secrecy.
Ancient and vicious, luscious
as dark velvet.
It blooms in you,
a poppy made of ink.

Margaret Atwood

My Case

May 17, 2018

Its abandoned doppelganger
goes round and round on the carousel
long after the crowds have left.
I curse myself for not tying on
a sparkly Christmas ribbon,
for not painting a Union Jack on it
like we did on our tortoise.

I walk through Nothing to declare
and out into bright sun, in my hand
Ted Hughes, The Unauthorised Life,
a banana, crisp new euros in a purse
I never use, and sunglasses.
I hail a taxi, feeling oddly weightless,
my knickers, my six ironed T shirts gone.

Carole Bromley


For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap its knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.

You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

Clementine von Radics

Woman at dusk

May 15, 2018

The day slips its skin.
A line of beech waits for the moon.
Birds are mousey in the hedge –
a small one aches across the sun.
The sky is a chrysalis,
then a molten line like the lip of the sea,
then too much fire to be sad.
The woman steps inside.
From her kitchen window, stars.

Catherine Ayres


May 13, 2018

you ate stained glass
expecting to grow a rose
window in your belly,
every shard a memory
of colour wholly illuminated.
but heaven is a wheel
of silence, her imperfect
eternity revealing the wreck
rooted in your womb.

Hannah Cohen

still as a scar through the screen’s glow : perhaps this is the origin
of my obsession with the colour white : searching to name this shade
colour like bitten bed sheets : colour like a failed dove : or split lip

when red has ceased howling its way to the surface : perhaps the colour
of fog over the river bed that morning : or the colour of concrete
that bleach & blood leave behind : it hangs around her like the word

faggot in the air of the locked bedroom : like drying haemorrhage suspended
between skin & cotton : sideways on the bathroom floor : it hangs around
her like a name : that once belonged only to me : & i think maybe

most of all i am jealous : for any metaphor i can put to it : the dress
is still beautiful : pale & soft & pure : & isn’t this just like my poems?
dressing a violence in something pretty & telling it to dance?

torrin a greathouse