The Dresser – Ruth Aylett

The Dresser

Each day the visit with clean clothes;
only the unloved wear hospital gowns,
shedding their identity, disposably dressed.

Here is the T-shirt you bought in New Orleans,
another from Mexico after we climbed
the Pyramid of the Sun. Ben Franklin’s
wit on God and Beer blazoned on this one.

Each afternoon the departure with dirty clothes
plastic bagged; the pyjamas victim of
night-time urine bottle disasters, T-shirts
marked with the slime of cottage pie.

Each night the washing machine runs
in an empty flat, my own sheets untouched
by your sweat or skin cream, bed shared
only by an opportunist cat, seizing your space.

Dressing you for your last performances,
the run ending soon.


Ruth Aylett teaches and researches computing in Edinburgh. She has published nearly 90 poems in a variety of magazines – including Prole, The North, Antiphon, Agenda, Envoi, Southbank Poetry – and a large number of anthologies, most recently Scotia Exremis (Luath), and Pale Fire, New Poetry on the Moon (Frogmore Press). You can find out more at

Loss by the Gallon – Marissa Glover

Loss by the Gallon

Painting the house is an act of forfeit.
Each brush stroke, a soft surrender.
Swish then wish, then swish, then
some new color to cover up the divorce.
But underneath it all, it’s still a wall—
always a wall. Don’t believe the home
improvement ads. Winsome Gray
in the bedroom won’t end the argument.
Balmoral Red doesn’t increase libido.
Ponder can’t save the marriage.
Each layer we add dries. Efforts fade,
then peel. Small flecks the color of attempt
fall to a tile floor already chipped, grout
spotted and smudged beyond cleaning.


Marissa Glover teaches and writes in the United States, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Her poetry is found in UK journals such as Amaryllis, Picaroon Poetry, Solstice Sounds, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Amethyst Review, Nine Muses, Fly on the Wall, Riggwelter, and Fresh Air Poetry. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.

Other Half – Hannah Hodgson

Other Half

I discovered the body to be a dictatorship
when first diagnosed. The realisation of ‘I’ and ‘it’
self-same, that it listens in on my thoughts.
Her role is to remember breathing
whilst I overhear gossip on the bus;
to blink whilst I watch tv,
and warn of a burn from the cooker.
The internet offered the chance to shadow her
a reiteration of fact
when she sleeps, I won’t wake up.
The day the doctor introduced
me to my subconscious
I met a woman who knew everything,
who understood.


Hannah Hodgson is a 21 year old poet living with life limiting illness. She writes about illness, hospice and death to raise awareness of these issues. Her poetry has been published in Under the Radar, Acumen and Poetry Salzburg, amongst others.

I love you, Mum (& hip-hop) – Guy Elston

I love you, Mum (& hip-hop)

As the tune started,
and ‘Fuck all you hoes’ rang out
in the English seafront apartment,
my mother turned to me on her 66th birthday
and remarked slowly, solemnly,
I haven’t listened to Biggie in a long time.

Not since I made mix CDs for the drive to school,
to my first teenage parties, or to the shop
for her to buy me beers with an air of muted pride.
She never liked the songs
I expected her to. Aphex Twin, then UB40; she confounded,

daughter of a miner
who made a living curating
portraits, framing them for an audience. I noticed early
that Mum had a spectrum of accents, registers;
Didcot is simply ghastly she’d declare, We live on the outer
brink of civilisation; but later that posh prat

doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.
After school my task was to feed the pigeons; doves,
she called them. An entire society of them
lived on the garage (guhraj?), settled
by the promise of a twice daily feed.
I stepped like an astronaut bearing birdseed

into a vortex of uncertain feathers,
cursing her, loving her. We only know our parents
by accident, then by sustenance.
I thought there would be other songs,
that there must have been other ones; but
I can’t remember any. ‘Juicy’ is ours now, absurdly.


Guy Elston lives on the Wirral and is completing an MA. His poetry has recently been included by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Burning House Press, Anthropocene and others.

Mystery Woman – Stephen Bone

Mystery Woman

No one knew who she was.
When it was taken. Too late
to ask now.

Our father’s dressed
in a pinstripe blazer,
Panama at a few pints

down tilt. She’s a swirl
of rose-printed frock,
her hand against his face,
white gloved,

like an archivist,
touching something


Stephen Bone had been published widely in magazines in the U.K and U.S. A first collection, In The Cinema (Playdead Press) appeared in 2014, followed by Plainsong (Indigo Dreams 2018 ) .

Nautilus – Sarah McPherson


Curled into the semblance
of a shell, we lie. I will watch you sleep,
listen to your small sounds, trace
with one finger the line of your arm
beneath the sheets.

Curled into a tangle of limbs
and hot breath, we lie. Kelp
on a beach, safe above the line
of polished glass, tin cans and foam,
left by the sea.

Curled in the quilted darkness
of our cave, we lie. These are the times
that wrap those small dissatisfactions
in a shining skin, smooth pearls, to ease
the tensions of the day.

Curled into a single twist
of sun-bleached wood, we lie. Washed together
by the tides, we rest as one. I will
lean my head into the curve of your neck
and join your dreams.


Sarah McPherson is a writer of short fiction and poetry from Sheffield in the UK. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Corvid Queen, The Castle (Royal Rose Magazine), Still Point Arts Quarterly, and Burning House Press.
Twitter: @summer_moth

Atoms – Robert Ford


Even now, deep into your final disintegration, we still find humour,
hidden like truffles in the darkness, waiting to be unearthed. You joke

about the size of hole I’ll need to dig. I tell you that you underestimate
what I can do with a shovel; a long, spare afternoon or two; light soil.

We bitch about the weather, name each raindrop, argue the relative merits
of every prevailing wind, decide we are all of us fog. All temporary storms.

I hear you’ve started going to mass again, hedging your bets perhaps.
An over-confident priest comes calling, addresses you as ‘dude

without a flicker of irony. He may or may not be after your soul, but
it’s your atoms that concern me. Could I find them again one day,

sending cryptic signals through the leaves at the bottom of a teacup?
Or in a sunlit puddle, once these sullen thunderclouds have rolled away?


Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, US and elsewhere, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at




Echo – Ross Wilson


The voices of ducks,
doggies and birdies
echoed in the caves
of our mouths.
Ack! Ack!
Oof! Oof!
Weet! Weet!
In the underpass,
I let your name rise
deep from my chest
so you could hear it
bounce back at us,
as moments like this
will come back
when we are far
from here,
and your hand
no longer needs
my hand.


Ross Wilson works full time as an Auxiliary Nurse in Glasgow. His first full collection was published by Smokestack Books in 2018. His poems have appeared in The Dark Horse, The Honest Ulsterman, Edinburgh Review, and other publications.

Featured Publication – The Aesthetics of Breath by Charles G Lauder Jr

Our featured publication for January is The Aesthetics of Breath by Charles G Lauder Jr, published by V. Press.

There’s an enviable gusto and assurance about this debut, the confident voicing of a
distinctive sensibility that deserves our attention. Lauder has a keen ear for the musical and metrical possibilities of a well-wrought line which well serves his deftly rendered lyric style. Particularly impressive are the domestic sequences and longer poems which hold both interest and momentum throughout: an achievement of poetic coherence and craft that can only be accomplished by a poet more than ready to stake a claim for his place on the contemporary scene.‘ Martin Malone

In his debut collection, Charles G. Lauder is not afraid to delve beneath the surface of white masculinites, unearthing violence and toughness but vulnerability and tenderness also. This means examining his own past in the US; what he has inherited, what he brings to his life in England, and what he finds there. Again and again, poems reveal that his family is his lodestone: “We are our elements. I would be lost/without them.” The Aesthetics of Breath is a rich and varied collection which has love and social justice at its heart but does not turn aside from uncomfortable truths.‘ Pam Thompson

The Aesthetics of Breath is NOT a breath of fresh air – it is an unflinching, deep breathing-in of a gas called ‘history’, so that it hurts in the lungs. Be they personal myths or legends of entire nations’ violence, here the vapours of various histories sublimate into Lauder’s vivid ‘solidifications’ – poems that render the distance and otherness of places and times as touchable and smelt. Some of these poems are ‘stellar gases congealing into orbits’, and they are celebratory confirmations of essential stories we humans need to tell our selves. But be warned: some of these poems cast ‘Hiroshima shadow[s]’ to exorcise our civilisation’s pale myths, its ghosts that too often comfortably haunt us, and our too easy and shallow breaths of memes. At times this book is like opening a grave to find the buried still alive … and violently gasping out accounts of ‘the ruling passions of the woods.’ Mark Goodwin




There’s a river that runs behind the house
where most go to murder,
hands around the throat, head held down.

A day doesn’t go by when a body
isn’t being dragged to the water’s edge.
There’s not much resistance as I stare

at the back of the empty skull; I never
look at the face – all complete strangers.
One could be my family but I’ll never know.

I rummage through the pockets
before the current takes them away
and then go back inside for dinner.

Some are of color, some pale.
I never give a thought to ghosts
or what their life was like.

It’s a fair assumption I wouldn’t
have liked them. At some point
they probably would have shot me

or my kin, or stolen from me. So much
of what I have is less than what
my father and grandfather had.


The Japanese Movie

When friends’ backs are turned – preoccupied
with ice cream and their year-long trip to France
flitting in and out of French as if in love –
I hide in the audience of a Japanese movie
as if slipping from one dream to the next
the ending clear but not how it’s supposed to be.

There is comfort in the dark with strangers
not looking at one another but at a spot
above each other’s head flashes of movement
and color that take us back to the beginning
when there was only laughter and gesture
I couldn’t speak the language
…………………….and no one could speak mine.


Dirty Laundry

Your mother cannot shift the carbon dioxide out of the bottom of her lungs where it
piles up overnight like old laundry. She cannot exhale those dreams of angry men and
dead boys. The burden pins her to the bed. Your father, reeking of sawdust, puts it down
to lack of exercise, the meds, a virus she probably caught on last year’s cruise, the Asian
breathing into a mask in the next bed. When your mum gets her breath back, she scolds
him for the overboiled egg salad sandwich, for losing his wallet and not paying the bills,
for not having finished tiling the kitchen wall. Fifty years of avoiding an argument has
finally burst. Making your excuses, you collect your mother’s soiled clothes and retreat
home to wash it all away.


Sunday Morning

As a child in church, bored by sermons of sin
and resurrection, I stared at how stiff collars
dug neatly into the crevices of men’s necks,
heads bowed and raised in prayer like marionettes.

Like ducks nodding to one another
before the drake mounts the hen.
Does he worry about life and death
while he bites her scruff, pins her down?

The cat brings us half-eaten mice, or a shrew
that bolts as soon as it’s dropped,
the dog nearby rolls in traces of fox piss.
Do either think whether there is purpose?

Perhaps the rabbit contemplates – amid
shredded cabbage and straw, likewise
bullocks in the grass before the tractor
arrives with feed – why we’re here.

Was it thanks to God, ponders the cock
as it leaps into the neighbor’s yard
to flee the stench of a cracked egg,
or the right combo of carbon molecules?

The ducks unearth a frog, pull at a rear leg
as it screams and leaps lopsided
toward the hedge, the ducks in hot pursuit.
I don’t get out of my chair to intervene.

Charles G Lauder Jr was born in San Antonio, Texas, lived for a few years each on America’s East and West Coasts, and moved to south Leicestershire, UK, in 2000. His poems have been published widely in print and online, and in his two pamphlets Bleeds (Crystal Clear Creators, 2012) and Camouflaged Beasts (BLER, 2017). From 2014 to 2018, he was the Assistant Editor for The Interpreter’s House, and for over twenty years he has copy-edited academic books on literature, history, medicine, and science. His debut poetry collection is The Aesthetics of Breath (V. Press, Oct 2019). Twitter: @cglauder

The Aesthetics of Breath is available for purchase from the V. Press website.

Unthreaded – Rachel Cunniffe


Pearls spill in to
the frosty pavement.
I grip the remains
in my ungloved fist.
From now on I resolve never
to wear antique jewellery
around my neck.

A stranger will flirt with me
the way the skimmed milk moon
does with intoxicated clouds,
flattered, uncertain,
taking note.
The night air condenses,
like alcohol, optimistic.

On New Years Day
before the light fades
I begin my search,
my boots bite softly
into the hard white frost.
If I slip as I walk
it will be on a pearl


Rachel Cunniffe is based in the North East of  England and has  written a  wide range of  poetry  since being a teenager, has a MA in Writing Studies gained in 1995 from Edgehill University College.