Were by Bryan Marshall

‘The howl that sits in
my mouth,
by your black hole
of teeth’  (from The Shape of a Forest by Jemma L. King)

A bright fog dances, close to the shiver of the
ground, concealing the sweet bloody ripeness of a howl.
Moon fingers dapple that
tunnel of wet noise, a curdling that sits
high, too high in
a throat. It steals to my
ears, fills my mouth
with iron fear, as if I’d swallowed
pure, thick dread. Nearby
when the sound is no longer a sound, but your
shadow, grey strip faded to black,
I gaze with empty joy into the hole
that was you, that is all that remains of
hair, sleek thin limbs, hard bones, skin and teeth.


Bryan Marshall was born in Edinburgh in 1975, and grew up in the Scottish Borders.  Over time he has accumulated various degrees (including a PhD in music), has been a barman, a jobbing musician, a sommelier, a wine merchant, a teacher, a pub landlord, a waiter in a Michelin-starred restaurant, and is finally a barman again.  He also writes.  Mainly poetry, but also fiction, and has a short novel in a drawer awaiting further attention.  He runs Cardiff Bay Writing Group every week , performs at numerous spoken word events, and likes to write about the little details of things.

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