The men leave us be; at times
the granny woman. She knows
of green-smelling whiskey,
for the poultice. She eases
young ones can feed. Now and then
never know much about that.
of the granny woman, when she
*Until the middle of the 20th century, it was typical for rural communities in the southern Appalachian region of the USA to include “granny women”. One role of these women was to act as midwives, using knowledge of folk remedies to assist in childbirth, and significantly but less extensively, with terminations and contraception. My great-grandmother was one of them, and granny magic/granny witchcraft is still practised today.
*This poem was first published in the anthology The Chronicles of Eve (Paper Swans Press, 2016)
Meeting Tink in a bar in Heaven
When I sleep, she still exists.
Her face peach-bright
My friend is a tattooed hologram who hugs
and how she’s sorry I can’t be a bridesmaid
I won’t tell her when she left he changed his mind.
And she says she can’t wait for my wedding,
She’s bringing her favourite lover, a leather-and-tartan
this one makes her feel more alive than ever.
I’ve been here all this time, she says, as music
and tells me how I’d love her new friends
*This poem was first published at Clear Poetry, and in Kate’s pamphlet You’ve never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017)
Following the River Exe on a Wednesday afternoon
My son fixates on sailboats.
out to open sea, so we breathe
under his nose; I hold his hand
by industry, churned with purpose.
The boy tilts his head,
*This poem was first published at Clear Poetry, and in Kate’s pamphlet The Density of Salt (Indigo Dreams, 2016).
The names of things unseen
You discover new spots on our adventures:
You pack your bag, almost overflowing:
Your friends teach you bits of an ancient tongue:
*This poem was first published at And Other Poems, and in Kate’s pamphlet The names of things unseen (one-sixth of Caboodle published by Prolebooks, 2015).
She and I did our best with what we had,
She and I understood emptying bins
She and I hid our black eyeliner, tubes
She and I married a second-rate prince
She and I crouch beneath long shadows
*This poem was first published in Dying Dahlia Review, and in Kate’s pamphlet Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018)
for Gráinne Ní Mháille
The gossips claim there’s power
but she wants to swing a sword
‘You’ll meet your death, girl,’ her father
in the wheel, in the rigging, and break
in her, our saving grace.
drags it across the plaited red gold
rocks as she drops dead scarlet rope
She will become our Queen.
*This poem was first published in The Copperfield Review, and in Kate’s pamphlet Deadly, Delicate (Picaroon Poetry, 2016).
Kate Garrett is a writer and editor. She is the founding/managing editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, Lonesome October Lit, and the charity webzine and anthology Bonnie’s Crew. Her own poetry has been widely published, nominated for a Pushcart Prize and longlisted for a Saboteur Award, and she is the author of several pamphlets: most recently You’ve never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017) and Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room, 2018). Kate was born in southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she still lives in Sheffield with her husband, five children, and a sleepy cat.