I contemplate your arc, which has been cut.
Your projected ghost limb twitching in the glare
of my grand truncated hope.
Grief breaking bounds and bearing us
fused into myth.
Listen, I’m a mother, your mother —
It’s my job to scout ahead.
Even in a world that scoffs
at maternal prescience
baying like a bitch at spectres —
no one heeds me.
Your sight’s been severed;
you can’t see what I see,
of what could have been.
But you sense it, approaching,
and I watch as you race
This is one of two poems I’ve had published in the second edition of Have Your Chill, a magazine published by Pete Spence’s legendary Donnithorne Street Press. This poem will also appear in my upcoming chapbook, HUSH, to be published in June by another incredible independent Australian publisher, Valli Poole’s Blank Rune Press. My thanks to both of these publishers for their inspirational work.