Catherine Fisher lives in Newport. Her most recent collections are Altered States (Seren) and The Book of the Crow (Red Fox). Joseph, Surnamed Justus. Who lost the draw to join the Apostles I confess to being curious about you. You drew the long straw, stepped right out of history, from provisional stardom to obscurity. They should have made you patron saint of losers, runners up, also rans, the defeated. Your shrines could have stood well behind finishing lines, been set up by the nets at Wimbledon, in stadium tunnels and in locker rooms, discreetly for the exhausted and the disbelieving to take comfort from. You’d have been prayed to by those who never even made the interview. You’d be busy. We all fail at most things. The consolation was that you never died their deaths, or if you did, then no-one ever said; maybe in old age you boasted you almost made the grade but it wasn’t to be, unprovable truth to behind. Expert in hard luck, survivor, au fait with excuses, shattered self-belief - and let’s be honest, probably some relief - put a word in for the ignored. We’re almost there. Dancers Today he draws Eve. She dips her toe in powder, knowing he’s watching. Points it, arches, dirty satin gleaming. His fingers move rainbowed with dust. Yesterday I was on that paper; soft crumbly strokes on grey, my arms silent marks. “Forget I’m here,” he says; I can’t, his gaze dissolves me to lines and blurs, fixes my brief turns, stills an art gone in seconds, all leap and heartbeat. On tiny smudgy pages squeezes and contracts us, fingers rubbing out edges smooth. “Move,” he says. “Don’t stop.” Wants angles, drifting talk, a draught. Forgets we’re here. Draws us from the mirrors.