I recently had two poems commended in the Ware Open Poetry Prize (I may have mentioned this already one or two times). Both sonnets will appear in their anthology coming out in July, but here is one of them in the mean time (and here is a poem by the judge, Roddy Lumsden).
This small box is mine, I know it well.
I know its internal dimensions, and when
and how I am allowed to leave. I smell
the air; a clever fox must check the scent
and when it’s safe she’ll go. For when she gets
it wrong, it comes at her with claws and teeth
and even then she can’t believe it, even then,
back in the box and breathing hard with fear,
she’ll think she made it up and shift the fault,
curl up around it, try to make it fit
as if it could fit. For surely this intent
– to hang her out to dry, to keep her in it –
is too fantastic, no true heart this black.
And yet, and yet, she feels him at her back.