Poems
Siege
The postman’s lobster hands
clack letters though the box
sharp words with fierce serifs
I flush them down the loo
to cleanse and blunt them
into shining mackerel
I know the phone’s tricks
screaming at all hours
like a plastic weasel
speaking with the voice of a man
saying he’s a psychologist
wanting just a little word
he can tangle in his tripwires
which I know not to answer
that fixes him
the door shakes with rage
against the men in chequered hats
who say they’re police
come out they say
it has to end
and it will
when the last can of tuna
runs out.
Published in The Hippocrates Prize Anthology, 2024