Mont Blanc

Your pen is coffin-black, a casket for your dried ink which clotted into the thread, crackles when I turn the torpedo lid. The nib beaten gold, picked bone clean by the air, those mean years. Rolling up my sleeves I stand over a basin and with surgeon’s fingers sluice the pen. The water runs black […]

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38

38 is a collection of poems and prose. They describe the impact that my father’s death had had on me. He died when he was 38, and for a long time I assumed my life would also end at 38. This triggered various consequences, and made the crossing of this line quite significant. The poems […]

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