take a breath, and we’ll both count to ten this is happening to you, while I clasp your hand slips against our steady counting laboured eternal lines to time drawn out of your chest, and emptied skinny middle there is something about this moment now everything has changed, and that smallest voice shrunk like a hazelnut, has shifted me completely to a different type of counting opens his eyes in the crisp silent night can you see it in the heave of his chest there are flakes of hay in my broken shoe may I’ll hold him to give you a break our son I have a son I have our son


Poet's bio: Kieran Wyatt lives on the Fylde Coast. He is co-chair of GenSex (@GenSexResearch), an interdisciplinary research group, asking probing questions about gender and sexuality. His stories have been published in Eunoia Review and The Art of Everyone. He graduated from Edge Hill University with a degree in Creative Writing in 2018.

Recent Posts

See All