Poetry By jade king

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If You Handed Me a Bucket of Whelks


I’d remember the ringlet of a shell or the winding
suckers of a crucified octopus, how you choke--

                                                                                                                       unable to swallow the unchewed
                                                                                                                       tentacles: the winding road
of sebum leaving a puncture wound. I’d liken it
                to my grandfather’s half thumb or the pinkened
St. George’s cross of a scar

​
perching on bitten lips. The promise

                                                                                                                                           of three toothbrushes,
                                                                                                                            stress dreams

or fractures. Boxes of chocolates
              with marbled patterns—swarmed
by hornets or your kleptomaniac ex-boyfriend’s


                                                                                                                                              sweaty fingers. Waking to
                                                                                                                                 check if you switched off the
                                                                                                                 oven or forgot
                                                                                                   the ginger in your mother’s favourite recipe.






After Finding Her Dad’s Mock Pigeons in The Garage, My Friend Slept with Them for
Years, Like They Were a Plush Toy Waiting to Be Saved

Walking home, turn down the noise
in your headphones, welcome the reassuring hum

of your own feet ahead of you, like a tealight 
sliding over a wet sink.

Above, planes blink their misplaced bravery
in leathery shapes & your wrist gloats 

two torn clovers, 
scrawled in black ink. The memory

of the man you loved, greying
all your best white
t-shirts. You ran,

not like colour, but a bird
startled by burlap. You are 
home, now, settling 

into bed & cradling 
your images. After the clawing pause, 

your dream breaks

into two perfect halves. Your father 
has come // to take

the needles from you, & everything is
yellowed with chlorine. As with all cartoons,

behind the sounds: simply a man,
stretching a balloon.




​jade is a dyslexic poet, editor, and muti-disciplinary artist from the UK. She is often told she “looks like a dog person.” jade is a Teaching Fellow in Creative Writing at the University of Lincoln and her first collection of poetry, Sucker Punch, was published by Broken Sleep Books in December 2023. Other works have been published in national and international journals and anthologies, including 3:AM Magazine, Schlag Magazine, and Poetry Salzburg Review.