Ode to the Core

Ode to the core. Ode to the centre piece, the pips running with juice, the mulchy innards, the moist web of strings and seeds.

Dysmorphia

I cannot stop these muscles spasms, scorching and dense with tension. Poreless, sweatless, retaining all heat. Temperature increase, dangerous levels, microwaves cook from the inside. My brain is butter, keeps its pretty cauliflower shape but runs slick down the knife when you break its shell. Radiation morphs my tissue, I cannot feel it but my child …

Nude

I wrote a poem the day after the funeral. It was easy and painful and exploitative and necessary. It was about our line to the bathroom, about the shadow of doubt cast over the vanity of such an act. The question hung in the air when my father applied aftershave, and came dropping down on …