at our table

we eat our own tongues

             wash off the dirt the villagers flung

                       coat them in flour ground by our foreign

                                hands   season with kauderwelsch and fry

the fuck out of them


             mother plates them garnished

                                   with unspeakable accents

                                           her hair coiffed in the style all the ladies in the village wear


father’s palate thick with a dialect


                                    that cannot be excised

                                              takes out his otherness   puts it in a glass on the sill

                                                            where it grins at passer-by


 this is how we eat: swallowing


the light filtered by the jalousie stripes us all in sun

                    and shade   outside a single peal of the big bronze bell

                                       announces a quarter past normal

                                                                           the scraping of knives and forks on plates

up and down

                             the streets echoing like mechanical birdsong


 sister pours sips of her blood


 into our mouths from a cup made of a gold

                                                so lustrous it makes the future seem impossibly




brother leans back    balancing on the hind legs of his chair



            in the moment of falling    his mouth open

                                     full of broken

                                                         swings stolen from the playground

                                                                                       behind the house where we lived

this is us


mealtimes are holy and we the congregation

                                  knees studded with gravel are learning

                                              how to pray again   to mortal gods   with dirty hands

                                                     with chipped off teeth   and accents thick as bunker walls


made of bread


is a queer writer with disabling chronic illness living in Sussex. Dillon’s work is published both online and in print, including Poetry Wales and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Shortlists include Nine Arches Primers 2021 and Creative Futures Writers’ Award 2022. Winner of the Rebecca Swift Foundation Women Poets’ Prize 2022. They are working towards that debut collection.



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