Poetry

Cogs and whirrs

You can see them if you look closely. The fixers fixing. Broken things.¬†Old things. Silly things. Brave things. Shattered or whole, the fixers fix. ‘But why do they fix?’ You ask. ‘Because they are the ones who need to be fixed the most,’ I say.

 

 

Poetry

Brunch.

In my eggcup is a blackened stone vaguely heart-shaped. If I touch it, beads of red rise to the surface to greet my skin. They retreat at the same time I do. The lady across the street hires out coffins. Thirty pounds a day, one hundred pounds fine if said coffins are accidentally buried. Uplift charge, you see. I tap the stone in my eggcup with a teaspoon. Charred pieces splinter off, revealing a soft, pink inner. I dig in.