Chris Jones
Moth Collectors
When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks Through the kitchen, tips between her teeth, And scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed. If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead Though a number
Name
His name has been ghosted over the fence, Leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes. I’m half the man, he says, not my sentence, Waiting on time that other people chose. From their windows men
Work
I caught rumours of some internal hearing Then you appeared with tears squeezing your eyes, Hands scrunched up like a child’s, rice paper skin. That work mates complained was a big surprise As you
The Emergency Drill
We sat in the belly of the aeroplane And held out for sirens to swerve across the grass; Men with cutting gear and masks. No-one came. On a back seat, Mr. Phillips bandied jokes