Poetry by Imogen McHugh

       George Bremer CC




The girl finds comfort in the birds.


Three birds gather in the red leaves 
of the evening, loud against their own
smallness, their conversations as rounded
as their own bodies. Fluffed up
against the wind, you and I stand still
to let them pass.

I haven't had a good day in a long time,
but this one is shaping up alright.
The birds are bringing the foliage to life
but we are so still, we hardly breathe 
and I could stay under the trees forever
quietly among the small things.

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Dogboy.


You’re thick skinned, thick haired.
Still afraid of the moon,
not understanding that
if you turned, I would be gentle.
Enough to make you pliant,
squirming between the sofa
and the fireplace, belly-up.
You start barking at the mirror.
I get it.
Sometimes, all I see in the glass
is another woman –
she makes me bare my teeth. Unrecognisable,
until I see the little hairs
above her upper lip
and then it’s all just disappointment.
Dig holes at the bottom of garden,
and I’d let you bury my bones there.
Dig teeth into the ribbons
of my arms, and I’d unleash you.
You could chase your tail
for a hundred miles and I swear,
it would still be just behind you.

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Imogen McHugh is a young disabled poet from Norwich, England. She has an MA in poetry and one book of poems currently published: A King’s Bones, which came out in 2022. She loves crochet, poetry, dogs, and did she mention poetry?
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