Tag Archives: Oz Hardwick

The Second Time

The second time he dived, everything broke. It had seemed a good idea: dodging gravity, the formulae of falling, incidence and resistance; and when he surfaced into birthday sun, he felt more alive, gasping and shaking his head, flexing every … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Graduation

On the last day, he never even emptied his schoolbag; just threw it in the cupboard in the spare room with carrier bags full of letters, photographs and pressed flowers. He moved out of the family home, acquired a job … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 1 Comment

Trout Fishing in Doctors’ Waiting Rooms

Fish stream in wide-mouthed surprise, a silver procession wreathed in bubbles. She wonders why all surgeries have obligatory tanks amongst the glossy magazines, last year’s gossip and unrealistic home improvements. She tries to concentrate on celebrity kitchens and bedroom secrets, … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments

Day Trip

Surprise is an unrolled paper, a sunrise I can’t for the life of me remember, hand-coloured, with a phone number scrawled in the corner. There’s a bus stop where we slept beneath plastic sheets, a basic bender in a field … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

At the Late-Night Pharmacy

Returning unused medicines is an echo of sacrifice, a ritual of solid regret. White-coated priests receive my gathered offerings with smiles, but nothing else or, perhaps, a spiritual surety so deep that it no longer ripples the surface. I wonder … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Truth or Dare

The days were rust and nettles, blistering sun, our tongues too fat to lie. In the sidings, weeds swallowed old metal, like we swallowed dry promises, trying not to gag. You said only the abandoned were beautiful, and we threw … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

When He Leaves

When he leaves the house in the middle of the night, your swallow is louder than the closing door. By the time you have dressed, there is no sign of him, each of the three roads filled with unruffled black … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 3 Comments