2026 Competition

Full Throat

We tumble off the night bus, bass still ringing

between our teeth. The driver narrows on us hard.

We choose. Old grief still crouches in the ribs

beneath oil-slick skin and a voice note cracked at three.

Pocketed embers warm against the siren,

mango from the flyover stall drips sharp and bright,

solder melts and holds where older iron

bites back against the tug of coming light.

Then Tesco names us in the midday queue –

each stubborn hour a spark that refuses sleep.

The body, once a question locked in tight,

now answers raw, unfinished, and full.

We crank the music up until the neighbours sing –

joy sticky, gold, and sharp as sudden spring.