The Cafe Review

by Rachel McCrum Girvan Whit’s yer hurry ? That great big sea turtle of Ailsa Craig waiting to finally lumber up evill scattering barnacles and

by Rachel McCrum I am unbuilding a house. Across the living room floor, bricks lie rubbled. Without fail, each morning, I carefully stub my toes,

by Rab Wilson What’s This You’re Writing? English Version There’s none care now about the poet’s work Least of all, not round here anyway.

by Vicki Feaver I was born bristling with prickles. My mother shaved me with a razor. When my prickles grew back: longer, thicker, sharper, she

by Vicki Feaver I dug all night in the company of moths — drawn from the dark to the bright beam of my torch — recovering first his skull, last,

by Pippa Goldschmidt Stutter–dots of light break up the sky, a bright Morse code that we love to crack. But even after we receive the

by Pippa Goldschmidt The (indirect) evidence for dark matter as inferred from the higher-than-predicted speed of galaxy rotations i.m. Vera Rubin

by Patricia Ace My cousin is taking a course in miracles. She rises at five to the cries of the birds, the tropical light bleaching the room

by Patricia Ace The Best Day of Your Life 4th August 1962 You envied the girls who’d had to get married: their hasty ceremonies, their

by Niall Campbell One night I was sitting by my inner life and it was such a little fire and, here and here, the snow was coming down. Doesn’t

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