3 poems by Kathrine Sowerby

    A Horse with No Name

    How long we live

    with choices to make

    forms to fill in

    What will I call myself?

    Will anyone notice if I don’t

    if I just keep walking

    Barefoot is my preference

    That night I slept so well

    Remember Joe?

    I crashed a car looking for him

    in boots that didn’t fit and overalls

    frayed at the hems

    He rubbed my stomach

    and I lay not wanting to move

    in case he stopped

    Mamma Mia

    The dog hair is mounting up and I am standing at the open fridge, eating vegan smoky

    ‘ham’ wrapped in lettuce. Two slices of ham, one lettuce leaf has the correct ratio of salt

    and fresh and slime and crunch so I keep going until the packet is finished and there is a

    new bin bag so it falls right to the bottom of the bin and no one will ever know I bought

    it. I miss eating alone, I miss having a whole day to do what the hell I like even though

    days alone and days with interruptions are similar, the line wobbling between leave me

    alone and call me. Nobody calls anymore – email me why don’t you – no not you, I’m

    busy stockpiling the coconut milk I like from the clearance shelf. Enjoy your coffee, says

    the woman at the checkout. I’ve been telling her about my coffee preferences for the

    duration of scanning and packing, which isn’t long – 2 bags worth - and my coffee

    preference isn’t complicated, I just really like that brand of coconut milk and yes, I will

    enjoy it, I will drink my fourth cup right now to wash down the salt and fresh and slime

    and crunch with a chewy stick of liquorice and try not to think about the kiss on the back

    of my neck.


    The man who asks how to prepare granola

    The man who asks if Red Bull contains alcohol

    The man who asks if my car is any good

    I tell him you just pour milk on it

    I tell him there is only sugar and caffeine

    I tell him the sliding doors are handy

    The man who asks for a massage

    I don’t tell him anything


    Kathrine Sowerby lives in Glasgow and is the author of that bird loved (Hesterglock Press) and House However (Vagabond Voices). More at kathrinesowerby.com