ALEXANDRA MONLAUR

Journey Man

Wake.

Wet warmness, nice.

Warm wetness, blad black blad-her bubble burst.

Close eyes, sleep. Wake. Wet are arse.     

Arsehole.     

Sore, cold wetrub rubbing balls.

Close eyes, tier, tier drip off nose-end.

Their mouth shapes say Journey.

Recovery Journey, Therapy Journey, Treatment Journey, Home Care Journey.

They bring word salads to my bed;

like they’ve opened a jar of moths and out they flutter.

“Prognosis”

“Diagnosis”

“Ataxia”

“Physiotherapy”

“SLT”

“Pee”

“Poo”

“Accidents”

“Push down”

“Purse lips”

“Take weight”

“Try”

I don’t want it, don’t want don’t want don’t want journey.

Fuck the Journey.

FUCK

THE

JOURNEY

The Long and Winding Road

Amira watched as the blowfly circled the child’s eye socket under the brow, down past the side of his nose, finally coming to rest on the philtrum. The overhead sun made sheer its wings and silhouetted the orange bristles on its head as it settled into position. She had gradually discarded all her other burdens on the walk towards the border. The once valued objects cast aside to conserve energy. She stepped backwards away from the tiny corpse; flaccid limbs and waxy completion unrecognisable now; once her only son.

Turning away, she felt nothing; no hope or despair, she had moved beyond feeling, beyond thought. There was only the walking, the endless stony earth and the tug of her daughter’s hand dragging at her skirt.

Alexandra Monlaur is a Scottish-based poet of mongrel Celtic heritage, whose work has been published in a number of anthologies. Her first pamphlet, inspired by the life of Mary, Queen of Scots is due to be published in 2026.

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