The war, a thing on which you snag your shirt,
plays Tetris over us. Those hours spent
in rooms with rings of fungal light
could not have prepared us for this.
We’re here because all moons of flesh were too gentle.
There was no bite, no bullet-smash in white magnolia.
A thumb on one pink plug, a tame, ticking pulse.
We dreamt a flash grenade’s fullness in the palm.
What are stars, or snow; what is the sound
of a chandelier rocking in slow motion?
Our guilty blood boils at birdsong while we watch
for the enemy – we’ve been told he looks ambiguous.
Matt Haigh is a 26-year-old poet from Cardiff. He has previously published material in Pomegranate, The Cadaverine, Fuselit, and Word Riot.