The muffled scream of hope. Later I join
a mother shuffling cards, sipping her gin,
playing poker with ghosts that live to win.
The smell of soil reminds her of grandad,
his hands as brown as clay. I have no kin:
I am the voice that drifts within soft skin.
As night unzips her eyes, her lips as white
as salt, I bind her soul until my sin
empties a sigh for another end to begin.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. Published work can be found in various publications: Sein und Werden, The Centrifugal Eye, Message in a Bottle, Streetcake Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Angry Manifesto, Poet and Geek, The Stare’s Nest, The Lampeter Review, The Screech Owl.