Issue No. 4, Spring 2013

I heard you died this morning
Felix Maple

I heard on the phone
that you died this
morning.
And suddenly,
my chair was
a piece of wood
with cloth on it;
My book
a block of paper
with black ink on it;
The TV a plastic
and glass object
with filth flowing through it.
And all the food in my
fridge was cold and damp;
rotten.
Then the day lifted,
and the sun came out
and November was here.
And you:
a lamp turned off,
melted into the light.


Felix Maple is a professional geographer living in Paris, France. He was a volunteer paramedic for a while. He is British but has been living in France most of his life which is confusing to him. He teaches geography at the University of Paris 8 (Vincennes – Saint Denis) and writes poetry whenever he can. He has work forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and Eunoia Review. His blog is at: felix-maple.blogspot.fr