Monday, 24 October 2016

A poem by Catherine Ayres


Always the echo of what’s left,
a heart’s empty warehouse
the swim of abandoned light.
We fall through afternoons,
find ourselves face down and framed
in bottom drawers, holding hands
with bastards in a tomb of bras.
The saints have lost patience;
they grant us single magpies,
blow-dry halos, dreams of bad sex.
Night skins us. We drink the street lights’
wallow, lie quivering in an absence of backs.
Try our false dawns for size:
blink through a veil of clean sheets,
suck your finger, spit dust.

Catherine Ayres lives and works in Northumberland. Her poems have appeared in a number of print and online magazines, including Mslexia and The Moth. In 2015 she came third in the Hippocrates Poetry Prize. She has a pamphlet published by Black Light Engine Room and a collection – Amazon – to be published by Indigo Dreams Publishing later this year.


  1. I love this poem, it is all elbows and truths.Can't wait to buy the collection.

  2. wonderful example of what's in store in the collection, Catherine.