2026 Competition

Skullbones

That motorcycle helmet bit of the cranium

is not a single plate or solid band of bone,

but honeycombed inside, like a Crunchie bar,

the consultant says, as he doodles a quick sketch,

then holds my father’s skull up for inspection.

I watch Dad stare into scribbled eye sockets,

whitely staring back. Part of the crown is dead.

Not just the scalp, this saucer-sized disc

of radiation-blasted skin, but the protective shell

beneath, leaving just one blood-vessel thin membrane

blanketing his brain. But still, the doctor smiles,

warns Dad not to take up boxing, says he’s glad

to hear at eighty-three he’s no death metal fan.

Much remains intact. For now the cancer’s gone.

Back home, having taken off his baseball cap,

eating the fish supper we bought to celebrate,

I look at that patch of skin, green rotting to black,

how it almost exactly maps the fontanelle,

on a baby’s head before bones fuse together;

how weird I used to feel, watching that alien pulse

while my daughter fed, how terrified I was I’d drop her.

That night, back in my old room, I dream

of pirate ships and poison bottles, dad jokes

spilling like loose teeth from Yorick’s grinning jaw.