two poems

by Ewen Glass

The old woman on the plane

watched Friday starring Ice Cube,

Next Friday starring Ice Cube,

and The Hangover Three, I think.

She seemed to enjoy them all.

I’m not sure what my point is:

something about retirement age

taking off while we anaesthetize

ourselves.

Bloom

Read in me at each fingertip
the lines of rising tides,
the milky crescent of nail
that finds calcium in soil,
or else fungal growths
turned out in the garden.
I rescued my dog from one
and my hand held the smell
for days, a cancer. Might
we in mutant mass, species
and form find futures
homespun, the earth’s sun,
our own cells turning out
stories until eventually
everything dies from growing?

Photo of Ewen Glass

BIO: Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art. Bluesky/X/IG: @ewenglass