Poetry by Jem Henderson

      Stefen Acepcion CC




comedy hour 

for nick and alex

those laughs, built on sand, glass, and concrete 
saturday morning, 11.30am over the first pint 
drunk before the yard arm to spite it
and the times t2 crossword, the huge one 
snatched from the paper stand and mostly filled in 
by the time everyone else arrived, mostly 

us three, wasted bar room intellects, buzzing ideas 
spinning bar flies round and rounds, lost 
to one too many tequilas, export and bitter,
although that happens later

I remember pete laughing, saying 
you weren't really an alcoholic, not on just lager 
but you're both dead now 
even before lost to moss and grey

but oh, those mornings. that first hour in the pub 
where we'd build artful, glittering towers of words 
spinning around each other, a flying buttress 
from a one liner, an archway of a pun, building jokes 
on top of one another's jokes 

until the last one where ta dah a comedy loop 
and just like that, the building is done. 

a sandcastle 
gone after too many pints robbed us of our wits 
then later our friends, relationships, our grip 

turns out you don't need to be on the hard stuff 
to fuck up your liver, to bury yourself 
in untreated trauma, choking on the fizziness, 
the way it goes down, down until the memory 
just becomes another headache to be gotten rid of

once though, once we were architects 






broken wing

she cast out the boy and away he goes,
fled into the empty night, no castle of his own
he is a sparrow hunting for shelter, a nest, crumbs 
the fiery stars stare, no skin in this fight
although they will gaze at him, crooning their song 
over his frozen bones. he flees from bruises, 
spilled blood, a poison tongue, the scapegoat running
from his own self. drunk and roaring
his broken wing can’t mend. the city remains 
faceless and uncaring. he is street furniture, 
a lamp post fit only for dogs and poor illumination. 
He fits, spits, asking for only bread. jackdaws
black helmet and truncheon drive him further away 

why do the birds sing in the morning?
is it to summon God to turn on the light? 
or to tell the world I am here?

ask the crows. the pigeons. the tents.
the men within. the women with clipboards 
counting feathers. ask the uncaring stars. 

until, cupped at last in gently closed hands
just one whispered kindness turns him
from bird to shattered man

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Jem Henderson (they/them) is a genderqueer poet from Leeds, UK, winner of a Creative Future award for underrepresented writers. Their work focuses on the body, motherhood, food, queerness and on triumph over trauma an othered mother, their first pamphlet, is out with Nine Pens Press. Their first collaborative project Genderfux came out in 2022 with Nine Pens Press and Motherflux, its sequel in 2024. A collaborative collection with Chris Cambell, small plates, is out now with Broken Sleep Books.