by Miriam Gamble

There’s a turn in the stairs beyond which,
in the darkness, you are terrified to go —
the realm of the creaking life which somehow carries on
when everyone is out cold and unable to witness it.

There’s a mind–made barrier at the door
of your parents’ room: their sleeping frightens you,
the heavy breath, the still, recumbent forms.

You’ve been ferried back from light–drenched places,
in coaches, the customary glare
of the mint–green bathroom trebled in intensity,
like it sucked in pigment while you were gone.

Then woken foxed by the dimensions of the house
you’ve lived your whole conscious life in.
The recurrent dream of a cat walking a wall,
a provisional touching your father’s hair.

by Michael Pedersen

Bums to seats down at the table
like a book with a fresh new ending —
in every direction universes beyond this
this room glimmer and creak, skies
strain, though I do not notice,
my eyes are here lit as candles:
chatter swoops and whispered words
whisk up a clamour, the clink
of glasses rustle bread in baskets.
She licks wined lips and then
my oyster: sluuuuuuup, kissing
me, kissing sea, a life–long
veggie, une mère, une femme,
une runaway bandit — pink propulsive
tongue a creature of its own.
No bones in tongue nor oyster,
though a marvel nonetheless: a
zinc–pumped seabed filter system,
oyster has many magics and mollusc–y
mischief, is worthily lickable —
yet she had never licked an oyster!
Her tongue recoils gingerly, processing
them flavoursome fecundities;
the fleshy grope is silent and wordless,
the moments après noisy and weird
rattle around, shake out a coy smile.
Not to be bested, the oyster too tastes
tongue, zaps back, a shiver to
the spine from the aquatic journeyman.
How does tongue taste to oyster ?
No matter, best not to know.
This meeting six months back was
its own never–never land, a hunk of
‘would never happen, nae hope in hell’ —
yet here we are plucky as moon
still out in morning, sat thigether
in Paris’s Latin Quarter, watching,
wi the een of plotting seagulls,
this salt trailed mystery trip unravel.
I’m staring down both barrels at
your stars, born out of sparks:
you licked my oyster, you are
the oyster licker, one brilliantly bizarre
little alien meets another for pearlescent
new discovery. Clink the glass, for
the very oyster you licked
echoes down my throat now — the mischief
in your mollusk my tongue
understands.

by Liz Niven

Visitation       Galloway Scots

Yesterday, A seen an angel.
He came richt intae the kitchen

when A was makin the tea.
His wings reached the Artex ceilin

and they were that bricht
aw ma white goods

lookt wabbit, althou the fridge
clickt then hummed loudly

the wey it does when there is a
sudden chynge o temperature

or ye open a door.
A askt him whit he wis here fir

and he gied me a smile tae die fir.
A said A’d heard o a wumman

who’d been visitit by an angel wance.
Bit A wis sixty five year auld,

wi three grown up weans.
Sae A kent it it wisnae like that.

Time passed that fast.
Ye ken hou it does

when ye’re enjoyin yersel.
Later, when A wis hooverin,

A fun a fine white feather
curlt lik a foetus oan the

remote control fir the tv
A wisht A’d talkt tae him longer,

made him spell oot exactly
whit he wis here fir.

glossary
A seen:  I saw
wance:  once
wabbit:  tired, faded
weans:  children

by Liz Niven

lift       Galloway Scots

twa wrens are thrang,
howkin oot moss fae ma gairden dyke

wee mooths pull green fronds
twice as lang’s thirsels

thon things that wecht ye doon
lift intae a blue yonder,
watchin thir sma determinations.

sky       English Version

two wrens are busy
digging out moss from my garden wall

small mouths pull green fronds
twice as long as themselves

those things that weigh you down
lift into a blue distance
Watching their small determinations.