I’m not a talker, kept in solitude,
brought up by Gran who liked her quiet.
Words dig an early grave, she’d say.
I found her demons with bloated bellies
in the churchyard. Heard them sucking
the stumps of her corpse. Took them home.
They never leave, always hungry for chat
and fear. Always sniffing for sweat
with words as moist as Gran’s goodnight kiss.
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.