Red Fescue

We slip in unnoticed,

through the grassy whiskers

flaying your creamy skin

without a murmur,

seeking out our craggy spot

hidden amongst the flowered violets.


We lay together,

until the silver pond in the distance

becomes our bed sheet,

the hook of our ribs glued

like the fairy-rings

of mud-chips in our hair –


the sunset sinks further

into the bruise-blue of your eyes –

our mirror-bent reflection

now painted across the sky.

You look up,

catching greyless clouds at your fingertips.


Karla M. Alexander

Turtle Shells and Dipping Eggs

So, here we are.

It’s early November, and Rab is on his twenty-third cigarette since noon. I watch as he pulls deeply, as though it’s the last drag he’ll ever have.

The end burns bright, making my eyes hurt in the darkness. The butt crumples, defeated between his rough fingers. Unsticking it from his tacky lips, he discards.  Resting a hand on his thigh and keeping his mouth closed, he clears his throat.

He is sitting to my right. I shift a little in my seat, and wait for him to answer.

Karla M. Alexander

Snow Globe

I want to hold your madness.

Wash it

through my fingers and

cup it in the hand-basket

I wove for you.

Let my fingers tug

ribbons of air from

between your lips

as you drink all the colour

from black and white photos.

Let the ash-buds of your eyes

fall like first snow, and settle

on the pencilmarks of your face –

naked to me,

as the paper you’re written on.

Karla M. Alexander