HeyJaredEira Linden
Eira Linden writes poems shaped by winter light, quiet places, and the soft magics woven into daily life. Her work follows the breath between thoughts, capturing moments of grief, tenderness, and the wild gentleness
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 16
- Latest publication
- Sep 30, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Aug 30, 2026
Latest issues
Evergreen (opens the original)
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Evergreen, where the wild ink grows,cactus keeps old rain beneath its leather,whole seasons folded into spines and thorn,language surviving unspoken but recordUnder the caliche, roots writing.Bloom,Colour of split fig,hot wax,crushed garnet,extravagancebody built for drought.Coyotes cross the margins.Moths leave powdered with pollen.Bats carry one noir sentenceHeat writes,lifting water from leaf, fur, breath,turning it invisible,returning ink on the skin of morning.That is how a poem should live
Enough (opens the original)
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You said you would do it.Still it sits there,half finished,badly finished,or untouched.Truth is simpler:you could not be bothered.Plenty of energy to drink,talk,promise later,tomorrow,I’ll sort it.By night you are drunk,asleep in the dog’s bed,while work stays exactlywhere you left it.Sometimes you start.That can be worse.Something thrown together,crooked,missed,rushed,just enough effortto call it finished.As though I cannot see.Rough edges.Gaps.Parts skipped.Tha
Ode to flu (opens the original)
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Flu, you wretched little visitation,you’ve got into the small bones now,even my fingers ache,which seems rather ambitious of you,every joint must be personally informedthat I am unwell.Apparently I need to wear my glasses more.My eyes have become weakinclined to blur the room at the edgesretire from their duties before tea.Cold cup of water on the bedside table,paracetamol my small white saviour,swallowed beneath the blanketswith the gravity of a patent remedysent up from the apothecary.The coug
Seal bitch boss. (opens the original)
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Seals loaf beyond the rocks,slick grey bruisers with yellow tags,faces like they’ve already heard the punchlineand didn’t laugh.Barely bother.Thinking of Puddin’,all bad ideas and gasoline charm,the sort of grin that gets a broad into troublethen acts surprised when she burns the whole damn circus down.Grew up though.No squeaky little sidekick now,no waiting around for some clown.This is grown trouble.Boots on concrete.Dippers in the air.Salt in hair.A mouth knows when to bite.Bird of prey above
Recipe for chilli jam (opens the original)
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