Image by Tyler Flaumitsch

A warthog twitched its narrow jaws
and blinked alive;
a hunting dog peeled its black lips.

Our ancestors
were speaking through them. One asked why
a girl had turned

her granddad’s photo to the wall.
Another begged
his son (too late) run home, unplug

the generator
chugging inside the living room,
waking the neighbours.

A tear salted one boy’s cheek,
the warthog stretched out

its pink tongue.


Matthew Dobson lives in West Yorkshire. In his spare time, he enjoys playing squash, riding bicycles and reading and writing poetry.  He has been published in Ink Sweat And Tears, and The Cadaverine.

Back To Issue Forty-One

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