My mother is a half-finished
sentence; my father is a
One open vent, coached along
by the underground tectonic shuffle,
spewing forth taurean blasts. I stand my ground,
raised as the minotaur’s child.
Horns lowered for impact—after all,
a Glasgow kiss is not for courting.
Hooves dug deep into sweet-brown soil,
but nothing ever grows in this village;
his impending ash cloud,
at X miles per hour (depending on the
severity of the topic, the temperature
of the daily headlines)
emits too much pyroclastic vitriol.
On better days, she shushes me and waves
a regal hand; do not disturb the peace
which does not exist but by the grace of
the volcano. Later, she lifts the mug
to her lips and answers my
question with her own.
Do you really think so?
I hardly notice any more.
He likes to shout his opinions,
she likes to think she doesn't have any.
Lindz McLeod (she/they) is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer who lives in Edinburgh and dabbles in the surreal. Her poetry has been published by perhappened, Allegory Ridge, Hellebore, Grain magazine, and many more. She is represented by Headwater Literary Management. @lindzmcleod