Dani Salvadori – 1 poem

Comfort and joy



The lanyard marks us out,

or perhaps it is our badge,

as one whose days are filled with tales

of plots and skirmishes foiled and won.


Ranks of black screens greet us daily,

rein us tight into the network,

groan as emails uncoil and catapult

new fables into the morning meeting,

the battle for our colleagues’ souls.


We hold back fears, and maybe tears,

to win with a sentence, a word in code.

Who keeps the count is never clear

but the triumph is as breath

we breathed together, not alone.




Monitors blink black to bright,

fly from their bases, waltz us, whirl us.

Emails weave webs of stories;

gossamer tales that catch us

as we swirl, twirl.


Hurled from the comfort of the fight

we dance, we spin, we hunt for joy.

Our lanyards turn to ribbons,

twist and braid to plait around

lost maypoles of our dreams.


It all unwinds and there’s

no longer we, but only me,

and breath is mine





Danielle Salvadori is a poet, photographer and video-maker based in London. Her work has been published by Light Journal, Hedgehog Poetry Press and the website Please See Me. She spends too much time working and too little time writing poetry and is trying to combine the two into a series of poems about work.

John Dorroh – fiction

Oyster Shells



   Trying to steal Kitt’s oysters in the south bay forced me to decide that I was trying too hard.

   Grandma Vettie placed her old, warm hands on my forehead and combed my hair with her fingers. We didn’t talk. She knew my heart like I knew that my birthday shoes would rub a blister on my heel. I dreamed like a fat baby on codeine.

   There was a knock on the door. I could see cold air bounce off the window pane, through the sheer curtain that served no practical purpose. There was noise. Too much noise. Grandma Vettie despised noise as much as I did, so I was puzzled why she had let it into her house. Something about a dead man up the road. Heart attack. Crash. Blue lights.

   There was silence again. I went to Tahiti and swam deep to collect abalone. The water was warm like baby tears. I think I drowned on my third trip down. Hazy recollections of kindergarten and teachers with long faces. Bloody eyes with fat veins wound around pink stalks. Crablike.

   “He’s gone,” she said. “Just like that. Just like your grandpa.”

   “Who’s gone?” My eyes were almost glued shut. Maybe it’s pink eye. I can’t see her face any more.

  “My neighbor, that man whose name I can’t pronounce. From another country. I liked him. Always minded his own business. Just waved. Sort of like a hello but without any noise or commotion. Anyway, he’s gone now.”

   “You wanna  go to collect some oysters?” I ask. “Got a new place. I think you’ll like it.”





John Dorroh taught secondary science for a few decades, arriving at his classroom every morning at 6:45 with at least three lesson plans and a thermos of robust Colombian. His poetry has appeared in Dime Show Review, Red Fez, North Dakota Quarterly, Tuck, Piker Press, Selcouth Station, and several others. He also writes short fiction (99 Words, Black Rose Publishing, 2012) and the occasional rant.


Cynthia Anderson – flash fiction


Because accidents can happen in an empty room, we brought home lilies in small woven baskets and left them there while we climbed blue mountains, swam oceans and rivers without names. We wanted the room to stay the same, the core newer than the surface. The sun kept blinding and unblinding—we saw past the darkness to the flowers we left behind. If our birthright is being who we are, we have nothing more to say, we did what needed to be done, the baskets are our witness.





Cynthia Anderson lives in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, and she is the author of nine poetry collections. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows &

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Welcome to Bindweed Magazine Issue 10

Issue 10
Photo credit: Driss Tamdi

Bindweed Online 2020 is now launched to celebrate the start of a new decade. New poetry and fiction will be published every few days throughout the year, appearing on the Bindweed Magazine homepage and archived on the Issue 10 page. Submission Guidelines can be found there too for any writers and poets wishing to submit work. We read all year round and accept all genres and themes.

Happy New Year!

Leilanie and Joseph 🍃