Poetry: Selections from Marie Little

Things That Bother Me When I am Making Dinner

My fingers hover over
the end of the courgette.
We used to laugh at phallic
Now I lament the loss
of wooden pegs, as if
I am already
to die alone
sniffed indifferently by
many cats.
But there is still elastic in
my skin, just          less
I still drink red wine
on a school night
taste the bitterness in yesterday’s

The Day After

Peeling wet beige skin
from a slow-cooked chicken
I think of rabbit kits, brand new.
This is happening more:
messed-up nighttime thoughts
rear up in daylight
nowhere else
to go.

Day 12 and On

It corners the month like
a juggernaut
rattles windows
loosens organs
I cannot talk it down so
instead, I yell at it
in fields
tamp it down at the
dinner table
let it rip at volume ten
drive it fast up hills.
Sometimes it operates in
disguise, wears a dark
cloak, a quiet fear
its fingers pawing at my
edges without
intent. Sometimes it
hollows me out, fills me up
with spiders. Those days I drop
cups, forget meanings
only try to be
good enough.
Shouts bounce off the children
like soap bubbles
they eat over-salted food with
tight mouths.
I eat swear words, silently
wait for it to pass.

Marie Little lives near fields and writes in the shed. She has poetry featured in: Ink Sweat and Tears, Cool Rock Repository, Full House Lit Mag, Fevers of the Mind, Anti-Heroin Chic, Honeyfire, Marble Poetry Magazine, Selcouth Station and more. Marie also writes short fiction and won the October 2021 Retreat West Monthly Micro Fiction competition. She enjoys using everyday language to surprise. Marie is also part of Team Sledge at Sledgehammer Lit