For the first time this year, The White Review Poet’s Prize was open to poets based anywhere in the world. Last month we announced a shortlist of eight poets. ...
Rendering intimacy impossible, deploy lifeboats (mark yourself safe). Not listening as such, more waiting to speak, above all mark...
We are langoustines
feeling for love on the ocean floor;
the hairs on our fingers
that we didn’t even know were there
are tendrils reaching for something solid in the dark
each drawing the other in to an embrace
so close our bones begin to fuse
and blood flows freely between our veins – until
even as we sync sighs,
something catches in our breath
Fibres harden, become our own again
and your mouth tastes suddenly of salt
as if the sea has flooded in between us,
forcing out my tongue
