by Megan Cartwright


Primordial, we bask on mudflats,
lick the salt that dries in cracks
of lizard-skin, worn 400 million years thin.

Soon, you transmit, with burbles and clicks,
soon, the grass will be green. Obscene –
this denial of time. The birds have flown

without us. I do not hiss I told you so
as fiery biplanes rain toothpick bones.
We scatter the remnants where nobody goes.


Mind Games

Give me your head to prise open,
let me part hemispheres, smear
the contents, red across my wall –
a Gerhard Richter original.

Give me your head to impale
on a spike and display
by moonlight – gory maypole,
my very own Lord of the Flies.

Give me your head.
I will sever my own,
knit your flesh to my flesh,
scored with x-shaped stitches,
fat and raw as kisses.

Image via Pexels by Jahoo Clouseau