Poetry: "In The Bleak Mid-Marriage" & "




In The Bleak Mid-Marriage



She’d never dreamed of a life in a northern town / a place where you tasted with

your nose / where winter arrived early and never left / even when spring

disembogued onto the banks / or summer’s non-daring flies buzzed the tips / where

there were no kings / only Jacks (or Jills) looking for a fight


He’d looked to space for miracles/ jealous she already knew the greatest one lived in

them / he longed to journey in an autoerotic ejaculation / an Amazon acolyte /

eighty percent effaced / skirmishing with the divine / moaning when he looked

down / forgetting nobody thinks about dying stars in the daylight


Her screams got lost in the punch bowl / as he wrapped her in reality TV to keep out

reason / he tried to redistrict their ham sandwich quarrels / even offering to sit

when he peed / but on her birthday he gave her his face in pin-art / so she pressed

her fist into the nails / and walked out / even though / she had nowhere to go





Old Age and Other Shit


It’s strange / the mundanely of hankerings / for baked beans on toast / or prawn

cocktail crisps / your growing up food / now you are only growing out / and old and

infirm / you feel you should have loftier longings / for ancient things / the tang of

mead in the mist / around an Abbey / or standing stones / arranged like the uneven

teeth / of Rhys Ifans in the film Notting Hill


So you listen to BBC Radio / and pretend it’s for Gardener’s Question Time / when

really it’s just for the thrill / of hearing the Welsh voice of the allotment expert /

and for the people ringing / about politicians or potholes / last week Rod Stewart /

was fed up of his Ferrari bouncing / along the lane outside his house / he filled them

himself / opinion was divided / but you were impressed / after all Rod must be

eighty if he’s a day


Today’s topic was about the war / Tesco was waging on house martins / a

momentary diversion / from the other war / a story was about migratory birds /

weighing about fifty pence / and flying thousands of miles / to roost under the

awning / of a supermarket in Scotland / a pest expert talked / as if these birds (like

all the other refuges) / were coming up on their sell-by-date


He spoke of nets / and spikes / and customers slipping on shit / until he was

interrupted / and told to call the droppings—guano / and you thought if only old


age / was that simple / that by relabeling shit / we could almost make it poetic /

but then you realized / you’d still have to find a way of getting rid of the stink….







Adele Evershed was born in Wales and has lived in Hong Kong and Singapore before settling in Connecticut. Her poetry and prose have been published in several online journals and print anthologies such as Every Day Fiction, Variety Pack, Wales Haiku Journal, Failed Haiku, Grey Sparrow Journal, Monday Night Magazine, Selcouth Station, High Shelf Press, LEON Lit, Prose Online and Shot Glass Journal. She has been recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize for poetry and shortlisted for the Staunch Prize for flash fiction, an international award for thrillers without violence to women.