Something About Eels
I wash my hands again, it’s like I’m wringing eels;
twenty seconds later they’re fucking stinging eels.
It’s a motherfucker, being here without you.
I’m locked in isolation, loudly singing Eels.
My son wraps round my legs while we go for a walk;
he’s been in the river, his arms are clinging eels.
Equivalent fractions—a head of spinning wheels.
Homeschooling’s a bugger—have you tried pinning eels?
We’re running out of food, the meat’s almost all gone—
fortunately I spent my winter tinning eels.
My daughter fears the virus and she will not sleep.
She lies awake in bed, wide-eyed and grinning eels.
I’m bored of prophylactics; I hate the way they feel.
The rare times we make love it’s like I’m skinning eels.
I’m André the Giant, I carry you up cliffs.
She will never love you back! shriek the minging eels.
John Newson lives in Wiltshire with his wife and two children. He has work published or forthcoming with Hummingbird, Sleet, Allegro, The Moth and The Lyric, among various others.
new boots and pantisocracies 