BIO
Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. His poetry has this year found homes in Firefly, The Fat Damsel, Burningword, Five2one, Sick Lit, Leaves of Ink, Oddball, Words Dance, Corvus, Foliate Oak, Bird's Thumb, Dash, Literary Nest and Amaryllis. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of Australia, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet. |
PILLOW OF SALT
I tried to glue the leaves back onto the trees but it had to be over just had to be over when I dragged the blame out of the dirty clothes basket and gave it one last sniff just to see if I could just to see if it could be worn again and then thank Christ there came suddenly a loud wailing and a gnashing of teeth and I could laugh again because my darling dog had eaten my very last excuse and she was gone. |
P.O.V.
They tell me it’s because I am sick like this that she looks like a beckoning noose hung from a bunch of blackened balloons. Me personally? I don’t mind it. Apparently that’s the trouble. The nurse smiles efficiently, tightens the straps and says, ‘It will only hurt more if you struggle.’ |
SHE
She drinks a bit more she loves a bit less she no longer fits in her wedding dress. She’s given up trying, accepted her fate, feels herself thinning while she stacks on the hate. Doesn’t feel like his partner his mate or his wife, all she feels is as hard and as sharp as a knife. She reels her mind back but can’t seem to recall, what she ever saw in him, why she married at all. It’s a dead man’s float, face down on the bed, they sleep separate, unsound in their queen sized dread. So she’ll tread bitter water as she has done for years, not so much married to him as she is to her fears. |