MIR Editor
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I DON’T EAT MY FRIENDS, by Jude Whiley Morton
13th May 20– Went in for our meat license today. Never been so excited. Two years since I last ate meat and I still hate the substitutes.
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OFF GRID, by Deirdre Shanahan
A sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade in. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rose-hips bristle on hedges but the flourish of nettles sting my ankles, bunch at my knees.
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THE LAST CANDLE, by Lucy Palmer
We bought our last candle on the coldest day of the year. I remember because the weather man warned not to travel that morning, but we went anyway, wrapping up warm and praying we wouldn’t be stranded at the end of the line.
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THE CORMORANT, by David Lloyd
I lean back on my elbows catching sight of the cormorant, poised and ready for the first mackerel of the day. It takes off called by a voice I can’t hear, then dives, disappearing into the sea.
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BEING GIDEON, by Penny Simpson
Gideon walks out of the house, an army kit bag slung over his shoulder. I wonder if there’s someone just out of sight, pleading with him, or maybe even cursing, but the doorway is in shadow and it’s impossible to tell.
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DOT.COM, by Ilias Tsagas
ILIAS TSAGAS IS A GREEK POET WRITING IN ENGLISH AND IN GREEK. HIS POEMS HAVE APPEARED AT THE SAND JOURNAL, THE SHANGHAI LITERARY REVIEW, THE STREETCAKE MAGAZINE, TINT JOURNAL, THE AWAY WITH WORDS ANTHOLOGY (VOL 4) AND ELSEWHERE. HE WAS ALSO A RUNNER-UP AT THE BRIEFLY WRITE POETRY PRIZE 2021.
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FLOW AND MORE DELAY, Craig Burnett
Thumbs pressed together at his breast, fingertips a tingle or two apart, lips a soft horizon of grief, eyes absorbed
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BAPTISM, by Elizabeth Gibson
The water will be gentle on your hair, or maybe apple blossom if the season is right, or a handful of paper snowflakes, bubbles or just words, sung as a candle burns, scented with honey and pine.
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WHERE THERE’S BREAD IS MY COUNTRY, by Christina Carè
It all started yesterday, with the burning. Smoke rose in great plumes overhead as the men took to the fields with torches. They tied handkerchiefs over noses and lips; sweat rained down from their foreheads. Afterwards, they washed ash from their eyelashes and inside their ears. Sweetness and smoke filled their nostrils. This, the great…
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SHIVA, Miranda Gold
Tears at evening prayers – they weren’t mine: hot and strange as the skin I slipped outside looking on at you looking on at grief staged with crystal tumblers waiting for whisky and anecdotes told by White Rabbits.
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