She made my favourite the times I came to visit:
lamb steak, succulent and softening in the oven;
glass of red on the side, slinky in finest crystal.
It was the only way she showed me she cared.
My response to Day Six of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about food
I looked to without, instead of within,
the buoyancy aid that no longer swims
an external holding that was
just an illusion
a made-up craft, a
fake sense of inclusion.
So why hold on so long to an aid
that clearly no longer served me?
Was fear of drowning
the option that made
me feel I should adapt
and, probably, pervert
my core value?
Or was it the fear of feeling adrift
in a dark ocean of lonely:
that swaying sense of sad, of swirl,
afraid to let what is, unfurl.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/fantasista)
Who knows how many times we’ve split:
Is it five, nine, twelve times, or more?
Whatever.
Each time, we end back right where we started:
Square one. No better, no further.
The same old reunion,
the promises made anew.
Waiting for the other to change,
and no change beginning to come.
Then the same old fights,
scrabbling down the same old paths
of recognition and delusion.
So I wonder if this time, when we finally split for real
– for probably the thirteenth time –
will it possibly be lucky for some?
Oh, when you’re meant to be there
you don’t bother turning up:
(Christmas).
The whole world grinds to a halt
from two millimetres of you
(London).
You rock up when we don’t need you
and kids want to throw you around
(school run, 30 minutes late).
When you grow old and dark,
my heels and tyres slip warily on you
(icy reception).
Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes
makes the air a magic twinkle
(trees and fresh snowprints).
And being snowed in for days
while annoying, is freeing
(sound of your silence).
You know it’s over when
anger’s always on the stove.
You know it’s over when
contempt replaces respect.
You know it’s over when
me replaces us.
You know it’s over when
you can’t pretend any more.
You know it’s over when
you feel less lonely alone.
I’ve been resisting for so long
a certain thing.
I’ve been denying for some years
the pain of grief.
But the universe kind of knows
what we really need.
Not what we think we want,
but a goose-bumpy feel.
A furbo fox slips through a net,
a chicken gets surprised.
A wily boss keeps staff on board
with an ever-decreasing prize.
A playboy fools again his wife,
who withholds the sex he craves,
in denial that his wayward ways
will help to cheat the grave.
The soul gets bought with cash or time,
depends on what’s for sale.
Life’s random cull will cut and run,
and blur success with fail.
A famous face suddenly lost, now
is odds to top the charts.
A eulogistic comedy face
is drawing the last laugh.
