Ashes- by Fiona Catherine Clark

Moonlit snow lies thick. Dark pines shelter the still garden, their shadows lie
elongated, spear-head sharp, on crystal whiteness. Dawn comes late.

Little Boy – by Susan Duffield-Lodge

Children immortalized for all eternity, their last moments frozen in time…

We’ve become an island. Distant from the moon moving the tides,
the wind blowing rain in a slant song through the night.

This: my daughter’s purple palm-sized
vibrator breaking over & over again:
charger, prongs, buttons, its own rhythm

it has pretty yellow flowers, but is armed
with three-inch thorns—you bleed

We pick wild blueberries, yet my mouth stains purple
as she places one on my lips and I suck it inside,
crushing it with my eager tongue.

Wedge your keys between second and first finger, Mama says,
with a thumb pressed against the back of the key.

Hidden in my right shoe’s hollow heel, a gold watch ticks.

Beneath my under-bodice, neatly stitched, my mother’s

turquoise ring. The water in the harbour coils, black ink

Should warmth be a word reserved to the world of touch? Laughter

and joy, reserved to the world of emotion?

The pungent scent of sulfur

fires out from the gangrenous fumes

of societal decay we don’t smell anymore