ALBA - A Journal of Short Poetry

In the stone

I stare at the window
biting the nails of your lamp
and breathe

How it all began

it was an explosion
I burned the hairs on my arms
to see my skin

I’m standing on the shore

an otter in the lake
is swimming below the surface of the water
like a ghost
or like a flowing sleeve

Heroes

walking down the hill
near a blinded house
I saw a pair of broken willows
their leaves were pale
in the camera of sunlight
they were pathetic
in their white pyjamas
wounded by the bombing
but their bodies
prevented my house
from falling