Mark Antony Owen


In the rear-view mirror,
a dawn wounded pink –
bruised as clouds on a child’s legs.
Houses, not yet houses,

just shapes scissored cleanly
from a swelling sky.
The light, wiping the night’s dirt
from each home’s bloodied face.

Keep counting

We found a way to play this game, then you found
the best hiding place of all: under shingle,
marble, your dates in gold; under sun, rain, snow.
I covered my eyes as you were closing yours,
as you made yourself invisible at last –
made yourself impossible for me to find.
But I can still see you mate, with my eyes shut.
And when I close them for good, ready or not,
I’ll look for you. I just have to keep counting,
don’t I? Keep counting till it’s my turn to hide.

Flights, Issue Seven, December 2022