The Politics of Poverty, by Amanda Jane Palling

Those who govern my state have to wait

Till my body sinks deep into rumpled cotton
(I am too lazy to iron the sheets).
Then tiny, aspiring tyrants inside
Get ready for Big Things to happen.

Parliamentarians, some 40 or 50,
Gather round to propound at length.
Infinitesimal fists fly or shake
There are drunken backslaps and brash huzzahs
(And sometimes sulking in front of the fire,
Because someone else came up with it first).

At dawn, they turn in – the bill drafted and sent
To be readied and placed on the back of my tongue,
Either neatly stacked and tied with fine ribbon
Or crumpled and covered in wine stains and blots.
But ready to tumble out when I wake
Shocked by the strange new shape and odd taste.

The Crow, by Georgia Kelly

Help

for I am lost,

fall to the ground,

you collect my skin

fresh gum collecting in teeth,
pull bits of my being
into somekind of reformation,
clumsy stuff: pieces and parts
like rolled-up socks and secrets
into the back of your drawer.

In the darkness
claws begin to unfurl;
Where feet once grew
feathers sprout sporadically
from craters, pits, holes;
the pores you made.
Unbeknown, I thrive on mites and lice,
wing, legs, shells, flesh
surrender to my hooked trap.

You

You with your futile limbs
and gawky oafish frame:
Forgetful of my caged presence
till the search for an item mislaid
cuts me from my oaken jail.
I am a deathly shadow
against the whitewash of yout walls.
In the keep of your chamber
I peck you dry.
As crimson swells and soaks,
seeping down halls
stairs onto the street,

Take your last breath as I fly away.