The dark matter of dragonflies
The landlady’s cat didn't realise
she had nabbed a bit of the night sky.
Mouth fat with its catch, it strolled
above the fence painted with galaxies
of algae, content to flaunt the lurid
blue chopstick jutting out of its jaws,
patterned with an ink-dark leopard print.
Its baking paper wings were pinned down,
a pair of ruby pinheads blinked SOS.
Late at night, we could've sworn it created
a blush of topaz, tourmaline, and emerald
Northern Lights in the living room,
wormholes in the kitchen, and spiral galaxies
spluttering into existence in the bathroom –
making every bath bomb explode out
of sheer joy. Nobody could have foreseen
the dragonfly would keep us together
with its gravity, as shooting stars ran
like wild horses above our heads,
determined to give us a sign.
Christian Ward's poetry has appeared in Acumen, Dream Catcher, Free the Verse, Loch Raven Review, The Shore and The Westchester Review. He was longlisted for the 2023 National Poetry Competition, and in 2024 he won the first London Independent Story Prize for poetry and the Maria Edgeworth Festival Poetry Competition.
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