You can’t spell salmonella without salmon

my cousin Jamesy would say;
I think he just didn’t like salmon.
He didn’t like himself much either
except what he could do in the pub.
When we were young it was glory;
now he talks about the sky
like he wishes he was in it,
immediate in flight as in booze,
relieved from his ever-question:
how to get to the end of the day
without feeling sick?

Dialogue that aspires to the emotional complexity of an emoji

said the critic and the critic was me and I was pleased with myself. It mattered little that it was only half true, it mattered little that I was only half at the screening. My other half was running through amber wheatfields and chasing dogs, suturing himself to a picnic blanket and popping prosecco that kept its fizz. We were all young at the same time once and in city parks with disposable barbecues and first generation Bluetooth speakers. The simplicity of this makes me smile with my lips closed, a slight blush on my cheeks, and I suddenly understand everything.

To Be This Lucky and This Sad

reads my new fridge magnet.
Some sort of ceramic composite,
words surrounded by wild
and unrealistic flowers;
a smiling face too, split in landscape,
a glaze so spiteful it reflects
the spotlight-nippled ceiling.
I stand here every damn day,
peppered by light and wonder
if this is what they mean
when they say we read to
feel understood. 



Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, Abridged, HAD, Poetry Scotland, and One Art Poetry.

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