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published in Dark Horse, No. 20


spit and sting


Iím moved to hold something so odd.

Tiny waspsí nest, a spit-lantern,

air made visible, grey with industry.

Itís alive, as if they were still there,

patterned to mandible rhythm,

a sightless drumming, a dancing

shawl swung from a brooch of little cells.

Half a gram homed eighty wasps;

space ship rooted to its gantry,

poised to summer launch.

Empty, its heart rolls around inside:

it will not be held. To deserving endeavours

crumbles like a clawed-up mummy.


If we made a dust house

it would be like this.

We would keep all our nothings

in its spiral arms. It would quiver

with vulnerable anger.

If dust thought,

its dry tongue

would burst and make a universe  

of stinging speech.



Pamela Coren


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poetry favourites:
Laurel Books

and in the shop ...
collection -
"The Blackbird Inspector",
Laurel Books

in anthologies -
"A Twist of Malice",
Grey Hen Press;

Norwich Writers' Circle

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