WaxWorks by Edward Lee


Do you remember that tunnel

in the old waxworks

we crawled though,

stopping halfway through

to kiss, and touch,

our hearts hammering

with desire

and the possibility

of being discovered,

before continuing on,

faces red and bodies eager,

to look at the rest of the wax statues

that looked nothing like

whoever they were meant

to look like, strangers to us

and to themselves?

I remember, of course,

though there is little

I do not remember

of our time together,

our one year, six months

and thirteen days still existing

inside my heart

and nowhere else,

the memory of us

a stranger to you now.

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll.  His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

Find him on Twitter:  @edwardleewriter

His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Two Poems by B F Jones

When We Finally Meet

We sit at the bar

And I say it’s nice to

Finally put a face on the name

And I laugh awkwardly

Because I am awkward

And you are beautiful

We drink too much

Too quickly

We talk too much

Too quickly

We kiss without

Drawing breath

You shut your mouth

With mine

So not to tell me

I’m not the one

You were hoping for.

The Best Scotch Egg In Town

I will take you to the place that has the best Scotch egg in town,

you say.

We squeeze past the crowds and get off the tube

We emerge on the street the cold air slaps our faces

And you ask if I’m cold and I say no.

We haven’t seen each other for months

But we can’t remember why.

We stop at Borough Market

And get served beers on a barrel

We walk down the South Bank

And you grab my hand

We sit on a bench and look at the river

And finally we kiss.

Till long after the last Scotch Egg has been served

Till way past closing time

Till the seed of heart ache is planted.

And we walk back to the station

And I run for that last train

And I look at your face shrinking into the night

And my teeth start chattering

And you’re no longer here.

B F Jones is French and lives in the UK. She has flash fiction and poetry in various UK and US online magazines.  Her two poetry chapbooks, Last Orders and The Only Sounds Left and her collection, Panic Attack, will all be published by Close To The Bone in late 2021 and 2022.  Find her on Twitter  @Fijo_Frenchie

I Indulge In Love

When I indulge in love

I want it to look like

the Aegean ocean

turquoise brilliance shimmering

while I ride the waves of emotion

When I indulge in love

I want it to sound like

a classical composition

of violins and harps

while we strum

our way back to heaven

When I indulge in love

I want it to feel like

a tender stroke on the cheek

or a thousand caresses

while we lay body to body

against silken sheets

When I indulge in love

I want it to smell like

a summer breeze

while I float

on a lake of patchouli

tangled up

in an orgy of fragrant flowers

When I indulge in love

I want to taste

its mouth-watering

sweetness ripe like a

freshly plucked Himalayan


When I indulge in love

I want it to





and taste

just like you

Lisa Mary Armstrong lives in Scotland with her children.  She tutors law and researches women and children’s experiences of the criminal justice system.  In what’s left of her spare time she likes to write poetry and fiction, drink tea and play the piano. 
Find her on Twitter @earlgrey79_lisa  

At The End

a judge told us good luck at the end.

afterward, we descended

the snow-clawed courthouse steps

& ate egg sandwiches

at a steamy breakfast joint.

the cold gnawed the bare skin

of our faces, our hands

as we departed.

we took our time, there at the end,

walking as the breeze tugged

winter’s last leaves along the sidewalk

like brittle fingertips. at the end

we each had things to say

that we hadn’t said,

& so we said those things,

& I won’t speak of them here.

but there is something

about the doors of the heart

& how they sound

when the years have warmed

their scarred hinges.

we opened them, honestly,

& let the wind rush through them,

new air for tired blood,

& we knew then that it was over.

at the end it was time for the end:

her to the stairs of a parking garage,

me to an ice-chewed train outside Boston.

we hugged &, for a moment, were close again.

& that, perhaps, was the best end

you could ask for—her 

footsteps fading to nothing, you

tightening your tattered scarf

& turning north against the wind.

Michael McSweeney writes poetry and fiction. He is the managing editor of @TheBlock__

Find him on Twitter: @mpmcsweeney

Poems and Fiction Substackmpmcsweeney.substack.com


I got your message.
It wasn’t tucked in a bottle, sealed
In the traditional way with cork and wax,
Set to sea
On the off chance of
Someday being found.

It was somehow more direct,
And yet, more subtle, written
In the sunshine
On the vast waters
Of your soul.

It’s frustrating, at first,
When information’s not delivered
Where and how we’ve sought so long.
Sometimes though, it’s more important
To receive what’s freely given
Than fulfill the cliché’s of expectation

Samantha Terrell is a widely published American poet whose work emphasizes issues of social justice and emotional integrity. Her collection “Vision, and Other Things We Hide From” is forthcoming from Potter’s Grove Press. Samantha and her family reside in Upstate New York, where they enjoy kayaking on still waters. Find her online at: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com or on Twitter @honestypoetry