I wrote a poem today. It’s a poem I really needed to write, I think. Today was a bit worse than other days because now the raw pain has gone away, it’s left behind with it some anxiety. So I took some valium, see if that would help, and it only sort of has. Strong stuff, that. This poem is called An End to Any Suggestion.
When we looked at the menu for the cheeseboard
We wondered if we could just order all of them.
Oh, prodigal you, stood up stiff as a board and
Light as a feather in country cottons, sommelier
Matching my moods, when you stand on your
Tiptoes peering up to the top of the fridge
In a house not half an hour away from my family’s
Making whisky macs in the familiar kitchen, you
Pass me one to taste, with a small bowl of olives
And we try to guess who else we know is going
To get unceremoniously dumped. I did it to you, you
Did it to her, then she did it to the journalist who lived
In Bethnal Green, but not before you returned for
The full throw-down, illicitly, on the palatial
Borrowed bed. Were they not your glory days! Work
Still paid well, we had no resistance to valium
And I was delightfully batty in your spare room. Now
We’re two Summers older. I just stopped being happy.
wasn’t Catherine Earnshaw meant to be dead by my age?
You’re nursing me through heartbreak, he “wasn’t good
Enough anyway”. He’s returned to an easier life and you,
You are suddenly present. With your pictures of your
Little one. Old enough to talk now, you tell me.
This evening, you flew back from the foreign past. Well,
Don’t get ahead of yourself chum. I never did miss you
The way I miss him. Cathy was told: “Honest people
Don’t hide their deeds”. It is true. I am slumped on the
Familiar settee. You are just a nurse to the unbearably
Dulled. You have no idea
Of who I really am.