by Christian Ward
Every shell is dipped in night.
Place an ear against the ceramic
to eavesdrop on fox squabbles,
crows watching rubbish bags
left split open like unfinished
operations, brambles unfurling
their fruit. Humans, extras
with no dialogue. Open every
shell to reveal day – the glazed
pottery, a perfect sky. Of course,
there’s the meat: An orange muscle
on a ready-made plate. Quiet,
contemplative. I threw up the sea
the first time I tried it. Didn’t know I was chewing its prayer.
© Christian Ward
[ Previously published in FEED Lit Mag ]
Christian Ward (he/him) is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in Wild Greens and Literary Yard and is forthcoming in Tipton Poetry Journal. He recently released two chapbooks on Kindle: Intermission and Fox Fires.
Find him on Instagram at @fighting_cancer_with_poetry.
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