Announcing the White Review Poet’s Prize 2019. The Poet’s Prize was founded in 2017 with support from Jerwood Charitable Foundation, and is for English-language poets who are at the...
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking straight into the gold flecked eyes, ‘I can’t see another way.’ The round eyes...
Hydnellum Peckii
I used to own the sweetest, smallest compact mirror It was barely bigger than my
thumbnail, which meant you could digest your face in pieces: an iris, a nostril, one freckle
alone in a sea of skin, the corner of your mouth I found it in an antique shop, buried in a
cardboard box full of old rings, chipped enamel, lockets with their mouths firmly shut,
battered gold plate spoons, and semi-precious gems clouded with age My hands came away smelling of metal It was silver, round, and on the top sat a tiny solid silver rose The compact mirror was the only thing I owned that I truly cherished My sister-in-law broke it She said she was just looking for something, a brush or whatever, even though my hair is too thick for brushing and therefore I do not own one Seven years bad luck to break a mirror, especially if the mirror was mine I took the glass pieces and ground them up using the pestle and mortar we had in the kitchen until the glass was quite fine and then I sprinkled it in my sister-in-law’s tuna sandwich that lunchtime I liked to picture the insides of her all cut up and bleeding with a hundred tiny incisions
Agaricus Bohusii
The trees look as if they are growing small pale green shrivelled hands There’s a bite
on my arm: the soft part just up from my wrist, when I turn my hands so that my palms face the sky A red bud, pink blossoming outwards I scratch it until I bleed I like the sound bites and spots make when you pop their pus-filled heads Yesterday I helped cook chili con carne, which was always my husband’s favourite meal, although here the chili isn’t real Neither is the carne The meat, in fact, comes in metal containers with thick foil lids You peel them back like opening tins of cat food It is a weird hybrid of actual animal and meat substitute It tastes like nothing at all, for which we are all truly thankful If they were
Ok late I know was supposed to be home at 12 to pick him up and do this thing...
I met Ryan on Tinder He only had one photograph of himself on his profile, edited with a grainy filter I thought he looked alright I didn’t have much in the way of standards My own picture wasn’t even really me; it was another lanky brunette that I’d found online, her face turned away from the camera My bio was Tinderloin, after my favourite cut
We met in The Crown and Sceptre I ordered two wild boar sausages with mash and caramelised onion gravy Ryan was older than me by eleven years He worked for a cab service, picking up the phone His hands were nice and thick, a good ratio of muscle to fat, and he’d crack his knuckles when there was a lull in conversation, or smooth out a napkin with his palms When I told him about Papa’s shop he joked that he was a vegetarian I raised my eyebrows and smiled; I’d already overheard him order the roast chicken at the bar
I went back to his after He lived in his grandparents’ garage There was an electric heater groaning in the corner, and the corrugated iron door gave the place an industrial look I felt at home in there; it reminded me of the shop in a way A few carcasses wouldn’t have looked so out of place, hung up next to his book shelf
When I slept with Ryan that first time I bled through the sheets I was sixteen and I’d done my waiting
A virgin then, are you? he’d said
I’d just looked at him There wasn’t much point in lying The blood had dried fast between my thighs and matted up my pubic hair, so the skin there pulled tight when I shuffled off the bed The whole garage smelt of copper, like after opening a fresh pig
I spent the next evening in the back of the shop with Papa, sawing a few lambs down into primals We had Radio 4 on in the background Papa likes The Archers so much he has the theme tune as his ring tone If I speak during it
