poetry

Dead Man’s Session, by John Paul Davies

  The dead man takes a drinkbut the glass cuts his lips.Drink slits his throat,seethes in his stomachlike a molten tide.Unable to feign interestin tracker mortgage rates,Celebrity Love Island,Netflix potboilersor far-flung genocide,the dead man leaves the pub. Drink steers his bodyto streets behind streets,dives requiring secret knocks – no one servingthe no one drinking –Bridewell holding …

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Rows of Houses, by Leah Bobet

when her heart beat, I was home, and nothingneeded changing. the clouds retched sunlightthrough the halls; she threw the blinds and howled. all along the cul-de-sac, the painted bright homessmiled; our house grew greyer, grander by thehour. the plumbing dripped red mornings, ductsgasped afternoons: the tissue shreds of words she’dthought of saying. the walls were …

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What it is to be a dybbuk who has travelled from Somerville to Brighton, by E. Lev Arbeter

The opposite of a body, but in a body. In where blood is, and marrow,and everything around and in between. To live without living in between fingernails and flesh. To operate a body towards want, and only want.The opposite of breath and metal, all lack, and navigating above concrete in a body walking across the …

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