The rain’s relentless. Within the refuge
of the shieling, a mother cooing
to her son – twelve weeks
departed. Her skin’s as grey
as stone. Are you them? I ask,
Her mouth opens to a line
of ragged teeth, a lizard tongue.
Cradled within the mother’s grin
I hear a net fluttering with moths
and I suckle her blistered breast.
I hear my clutching breath.
I hear my name in bones.
I ghost. I ghost. I ghost
in the sockets of her child’s eyes.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He works in a statistics office, enjoys playing with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including DM du Jour, Sein und Werden, Streetcake Magazine, and Three Drops From A Cauldron.