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3 poems by Blossom Hibbert

Updated: Jul 6


Military Associations


If only I could throw my arms around that

kiss of yours who only did it so they could

feel the city air in your underwear hooked on

god’s boys & sugar, da’s knocking on the

door again but ma won’t let him in. Lay down

paving stones over the past and step over them

toward the foreign greengrocer thinking of so many

regular things like digestion, yiddish theatre and marriage



Spaghetti


It is strange not a single thing missing.

Though I woke in a mouldy attic & 8hr drive & have

no money, no home, no company & certainly

no beloved instead a large red

ceramic bowl of piping spaghetti like swallowing

a fist of thoughts I did not know the fact that

Hope tastes of tomato sauce this bowl placed before the

bridge of my filthy nose every swallow one single

degree before burning means Holy and yes!

Bewildered by the burden of living I am delivered

into clean hands of Hellenic waiters from the womb of

displeasure if this bowl ends I know

I will begin falling as a cold block of

heavy wood from the edge of said nose.

Turn my back on the silhouette of a woman

weeping by the window and spoon warm

meaty remains into my irresponsible pit of

chaos. Well, Darling - the lack of a bed to sleep inside

tonight takes my bowl away to be washed.



The Long One


While I wait for you to raise your fist to

me I place a live bug in a party balloon


blow it up then hang said balloon outside

my bedroom window so I can watch


the bug grow old and wise while nothing

else happens in the evening as friends


come round with candles and pickles

expecting card games & futilities


I’ll say, have you met -

skin yet? and point to the party balloon


________________

Blossom Hibbert has a pamphlet, suddenly, it’s now, published by Leafe Press. Her work has appeared in places such as The Temz Review, Litter, International Times and Buttonhook Press. She hides along the Mediterranean - drinking black coffee, picking olives and finding inspiration in the streets.


These poems were selected by Anthropocene guest editor Tom Branfoot.

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