Poetry: Selections from Marie Little

Things That Bother Me When I am Making Dinner

My fingers hover over

the end of the courgette.

We used to laugh at phallic

things.

Now I lament the loss

of wooden pegs, as if

I am already

ready

to die alone

sniffed indifferently by

many cats.

But there is still elastic in

my skin, just          less

I still drink red wine

on a school night

taste the bitterness in yesterday’s

leftovers.

The Day After

Peeling wet beige skin

from a slow-cooked chicken

I think of rabbit kits, brand new.

This is happening more:

messed-up nighttime thoughts

rear up in daylight

nowhere else

to go.

Day 12 and On

It corners the month like

a juggernaut

rattles windows

loosens organs

I cannot talk it down so

instead, I yell at it

in fields

tamp it down at the

dinner table

let it rip at volume ten

drive it fast up hills.

Sometimes it operates in

disguise, wears a dark

cloak, a quiet fear

its fingers pawing at my

edges without

intent. Sometimes it

hollows me out, fills me up

with spiders. Those days I drop

cups, forget meanings

only try to be

good enough.

Shouts bounce off the children

like soap bubbles

they eat over-salted food with

tight mouths.

I eat swear words, silently

wait for it to pass.

Marie Little lives near fields and writes in the shed. She has poetry featured in: Ink Sweat and Tears, Cool Rock Repository, Full House Lit Mag, Fevers of the Mind, Anti-Heroin Chic, Honeyfire, Marble Poetry Magazine, Selcouth Station and more. Marie also writes short fiction and won the October 2021 Retreat West Monthly Micro Fiction competition. She enjoys using everyday language to surprise. Marie is also part of Team Sledge at Sledgehammer Lit.