The Race A phone that rings out, hollow and forlorn. It pulses through my raw and blistered soul. A sharpened comment, like a toxic thorn that festers in me, poisoning the whole. A blunt refusal to assert I’m yours that makes me harder, less inclined to care. A growing distance separates our shores and inattention makes it hard to bear. Reluctance to present me to your friends as though they will not see my worth or charms. A feeling that I’m valued now depends on knowing yours are not the only arms. Just know that while you say I’m still the one, that I am feeling that this race is run.
Gillian Craig is a poet and author, originally from Scotland. She has spent the last several years living and teaching in East Asia, North Africa and the Middle East. She has had poems published by New Writing Scotland, Far Off Places, Orbis, New Writing Dundee and 192 magazine, among others.
Grand Little Things 