Grave Soak
The scald pulls out aches, a poultice of burn. Pores dilate and glands purge drawing poisons. Steam's balm relieves throat into lungs by turn. Oils and lathers mask outside redolence, stilled and subdued in submerged weightless pass, concealed underside, defying buoyance. Beneath like sediment replacing mass, held down by seductive oblivion, doused into netherside of looking glass. Nadir rush, deaf like amphibian. Resurface sharp up to abrupt summit of asphyxiation's meridian. Subito spasmodic. Frenzy ambit reflexive gasps from betraying gullet. Periapt When silver is worn over a throat it's buffed by the pulse, so shines up sheen. So long as the two contact, keep close, amulet tarnishes vanish; rust melts at skin's touch, so clavicle's radiance is enhanced. Conducting flows, when they're near enough magnets recharge their Norths and their Souths if they're in each other's reach. Scuffs smooth flat under a loving body weighty as precious metal. Beacon I tap a texting torch which flattens batteries down to broken Morse Code. Outside, the car tank's empty. We are staying right here. We dulled low the lights. It hides, soft-tempers the mess. Yet, as moths dash their brains out against the dimmed bulbs the blackened corners creep. Blind-folded, we plug ears. You press the volume off for the news. I'm listening, through headphones. Expletives mute, as my charger drains. I switch the torch off now, so when disaster strikes, there still may be enough for one last surrender or desperate SOS. Black Out The sun came up in the East. It peeped, above the water like a wistful proposition. It began as a sliver of future, an entre, of all the day's potential reached in an excited flirt. Midday prime was a fine trophy to behold. It rose, full and round and complete. Once whole, too beautiful to even look on. Dreams realised themselves in gold against a velvet of azure and sapphire. Where did the black out start? Too late in the day, anyway. The first splatters so fleetingly tiny, only quantum flickers of grain on a single frame of cinematic reel. By mid afternoon, patches of vibrant horizons were already erased blot by sooty blot. The fiery reds and oranges of a promised sunset were flubbed in dark blotches like drops of ink bungled into an evening bath. The dampened day, let go, to empty dusk. A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Sarra Culleno A Poetry Showcase from Sarra Culleno Bio: Sarra Culleno is a British BAME poet, mother and English teacher who performs her writing at events across the UK. She writes about children’s rights, motherhood, identity, gender, age, technology, the environment, politics, modern monogamy and education. Sarra is widely published. She has written fiction and poetry for publication, performance, print, audiodramas, podcasts and radio. Sarra was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Pamphlet Prize, for Nightingale and Sparrow’s Full Collections 2020, and nominated for Best of the Net 2020 by iambapoet. Sarra co-hosts Write Out Loud at Waterside Arts, and performs as guest and featured poet at numerous literary festivals. Youtube.com/user/sarra1978 – YouTube @sarracullenopoetry – Instagram @sarra1978 – Twitter Sarra1978@hotmail.com – Email facebook.com/sarracullenopoetry – FaceBook
Fevers of the Mind 
Beautiful
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