Poems

They make the aisles on planes

extra wide to fit the horses in.

Grief is unpredictable, the way

it breaks forty-thousand feet

above the Labrador Sea, pins

you between hooves and ribs.

A voice behind says ‘Mummy,

the sky looks like a red puddle.’

You lift your mask to check.

This poem first appeared in The Butcher's Dog #11 2019