Figment

by Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki

the clouds are not really
white, they are all different
colours, it’s just the way we
see them with our insensitive
eyes, the kingfisher is
brown not blue, the polar
bear has colourless fur and
a thick black hide, the baby
cries just to get our attention,
and wears the face of an
older child, yesterday we
pretended to be real, with
our arms outstretched wide
we flew through the air, two
pieces of shrapnel, which land
and begin to grow, in the fire
a leafless tree with fingers
of ash, wisps of smoke from
the sun when we let it burn
for too long, yesterday is
nothing now, it is too far away,
your tongue is wrapped
around the ruined words,
you can taste the plastic
tang, the newness in the air,
a bow headed whale gulfing,
before it swallows us both,
whole, exactly where we stand

Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about the scary world. His work has featured both in print and online including The Lincoln Review, Steel Jackdaw, The Vanity Papers, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Sextet, Alocasia and Mindfork.