by Regina Weinert — April in the Sierra Morena is mild. A hint of heat. / Knobbly-kneed holm oaks, widely spaced, // cast shade over drifts of green and yellow. / The pigs must be ecstatic. They grunt and chuckle. // Grass blades stroke their
by Mary Mulholland — Tell me about when they dropped you and you flew / to the mud-banks of the Ijssel near Arnhem, / scarcely more than a child, with parachute wings. // By your bedside you still have a book: The Psychology / of Fear: How to
by Michael Laskey — yes, she gave up conversation. / She’d lift her chin and finger / her neck, feeling for the stoma — / her trial and almost always error — / to seal it tightly enough to speak // intelligibly in that growling / voice which sounded like
by Sharon Black — Hard to tell if these are my words / on wood pulp pressed to paper / or the tree’s own testimony. // Take this fallen leaf. Our veins are / indistinguishable. They snake and crisscross / under
by Sue Burge — When they peeled the dome / from the damaged temple // it was full of honey, oozing / down the columns like sweet candlewax //
the workmen’s hands slathered / as if they were desperate bears
by Helena Nelson — You need to understand the context. / There’s an English verb: ‘to be in mourning’ / and it applies to me and I am in it. / I’m in mourning for my sister who has died / so when they talk about 'women in mourning' / I relate to that.
by Annie Fisher — I blink, therefore I am. / The moon and stars despise your crude chronology. / The skylark’s ecstasy is the sparrowhawk’s breakfast. // If you're scared of the dark, don't sleep in the forest.
by Paul Stephenson — The entry says it’s homely in style, / double-fronted and two-storied / with gable dormer windows in the roof. / It refers to brick quoins and brick surrounds, / two large chimneys, one either side
by Jane Burn — try harder lose weight skim the weight from your clumsy bones / make a bit more of an effort get fit this is a new start forget / all the empty promises grow your hair vow yourself amazing
by Nicola Sealey — ‘I like a look of Agony, / Because I know it’s true — Emily Dickinson // I have noticed / when I am gripped and wrung / by agony, and manage / to catch its distilled drops // in a poem