Poetry by Marie Little

               ​Lenny DiFranza CC



The crumbs of it

It was 
nugget hunting 
I hated most – 
the scratch and scrabble for crumbs
nub-ends in 
last night’s ashtray, to 
start the day.

​



Loose Change

You come back to me in
the smell of coppers
poured from a piggy bank
in handfuls.

I still taste desperation in that
smell, feel
the cold rush of adrenaline as 
you count.




​
​I am just so full of noise

Day’s sounds are done and so am I
but owls but owls.
As I step off
into sleep the tocks click differently
the pillow smells of garlic not of
lavender. Nothing ever promised me
a dreamless sleep
just sleep. 
My legs find their own tangle 
my arms angle themselves 
away 
from night time noise – 
they will not engage in these neuroses
we hug, that's what we do,
but owls but owls.

​

Marie lives with her husband, sons and a very silly cat. She walks in fields and writes in the shed. She holds a Creative Writing MA from Northumbria University. Marie has work featured or forthcoming in Ink Sweat and Tears, Sledgehammer Lit, Five Minutes and The Birdseed Magazine. She/Her. Twitter @jamsaucer

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