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.

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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.