Poetryi. Evening falls, and rooms grow dark, then light. Through the open window, a cricket starts up its whirring. Steam rises from the kettle. The tea grows stronger – no words today: a tightness around the throat. A weight like a thrown stone. Sprigged flowers. What...

Poetrymy ancestors peer towards dry land from the deck of a ship; or are they like swine, packed into the hold to see the sun only when they arrive for the slaughter –   how do you tell those who have survived that it...