2025 Commended poem: 'Tail' by Freya Scott Broomfield

Tail

I have the best beard
in South East London.
Its crumbs and flecks of crouton and grey
are old-time trappings
of success.
In the Summer, I let it grow
into its own—I am the tangerine
dream, a freshly pumped
basketball. I am the red lobster-man.
But today, my wife turns to me, all blue
and no orange, and says, ‘Simon,
we have got to find a way out.’
We are in a cave and she, my wife,
is beginning to cry uncontrollably.
I am not crying, I am stroking my beard.
It feels thistly and in good need
of argan oil. The best beards leave glossy residue
like a Christmas pine. I often sniff
my hands for the oil, enjoying how it moisturises
my cracked thumbs. ‘Simon, we will die here.’
I let her know that I am thinking
- gesturing to my beard-stroking but conceding
that we both knew it needed oil
and maybe some shaping
with a comb.
‘Fire.’ I begin patting myself down
for flammable parts but find us naked
as jaybirds. My wife’s naked arm
touches my naked beard. She holds it
suddenly and firmly. I flinch,
my ginger thistle
in her teeth, I roar
and the thing comes loose like a child’s sock.
In the cave, I am peeled fruit, a freshly stung
bite. I am a poppy field.
It is wretched and dry and catches without hesitation.
The flame bursts into itself.
My wife lays out the scruff on her palm.
It curls supine like the body of a dead cat.
I lean backwards and feel the cold
tiles of the kitchen sink.
‘Here, kitty, kitty.’

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Dead Cat Poetry Prize - winners and commendees, 2025