Plum jam / West Coast Oranges
I’ve been thinking about getting old. Not considering getting old: that would be a luxury quite beyond me. I am growing up; Mother has grown a plum tree in the garden. This year we had too many fruits, the last almost none at all. Lingering on each, Brother and I pick [
out of sync
maybe we’ll come together again in the neighbourhood coffee shop that stands at the edge of feeling and maybe we’ll know what we want – the smells of fried bread, cooking oil, and overripe fruit blending into each other as my eye
Summertown
edgeways winter white-mouthed streetlamps waver the keys in my pocket like anxieties rattle their skins against each other a smattering of fireworks clinking against
An Hour After the Phone Call
the woman with a cigarette curses upwards death takes too long she says she grows inside out to house her flaws laughs again despite the walls she laughs despite the persistence she laughs her raspy voice passes through me and flows into another ear ca
I got back home on Friday
content warning: abuse, violence, graphic images, homophobic slur, strong language (for Helplines see below) I got back home on Friday and was met with a hug and a slap on the back that was a bit too hard. Just stinging the skin a little. My name exclaimed like I was a welcome sight, somethin
Two women
are wearing high necked jumpers, wrapped up to their chins like coffee cup sleeves. Their spines taut trunks, […]
Keep
I don’t see it as a word anymore spell out every letter enunciate every syllable begging for kinship from a word so distant, like your grandmother’s saris, the one in the pictures where she smiles unaware of being photographed woven in Banaras, home to poverty and colour, eyes wandering from
Rubber Fire
Horizon catches the cap of our neighbour’s fire oiling gashes through wood floorboards spiked with old plimsolls. The deadliness is in the sunsink behind the flames: in things suspended there is so much space quivering from absence into being. Strange faith. I tap your shoulder to ma
because my mother’s best friend is catholic
today it seems the missionaries are bound to send their best-disguised recruit – the tickle of hair on your top lip better found at the wheel of a Ford F-150, camo drying on the boot, but filters the word of G-d to a tinny sound a frequency between carrie underwood and orchestral flute, cou