38th by Charlie Baylis


     After Owen Sheers

My wasted youth, misremembering
maps, bowling with the farmer's daughter, home
for a long white glass of milk

poured to the floor, or four more
thimblefuls of vinegar, wine, water; racing the river
through the woods, I tripped over

a chipped chit of bone, jutting
from the earth like the wing of an angel. Spooked
I walked away as if wounded 

the next day I returned with my boys
we found a monochrome mosaic of skull, arm and shoulder
fear shaking the surface of our souls

these relics of young men, in each our equal
shuffled off to death, hopeless branches bent backwards
the stars were not there when they needed them


Charlie Baylis lives in Spain. His chapbook 'Elizabeth' can be found on Agave Press. He reviews poetry for Stride. Charlie has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Forward Prize and for Queen´s Ferry Press´s Best Small Fictions. He has made the shortlist for the Bridport prize. He was (very briefly) a flash fiction editor for Litro. He spends his spare time completely adrift of reality and tumbles, sporadically, here: theimportanceofbeingaloof.tumblr.com.

Elijah Tubbs