thirty two pages of poetry.
Thirty two stages of labour, lunacy and love.
I feel as stupid as I would
losing a child in a brothel,
a thief in a supermarket,
an alligator in a petting zoo.
I want to peel my itchy skin right off,
from my finger tips to my twitching toes.
I’d like to crack my head like an egg,
scoop out the inside
to help me forget
how damn fucking annoying
losing poetry is.
editing and shifting words
as though there was a choice
of execution or perfection.
Not eating, drinking, sleeping.
My hands are now dry, my nails dirty,
hair bunched up in a scrunchie
I’ll have to cut off
instead of combing out the knots.
I look in impossible places,
the bath, the back of my mirror,
and realistic ones, the bins.
m y hands become stained with tea leaves,
green meat scraps and rice starch.
Behind the fridge
I find my son’s silver spoon,
a small, sticky bottle of Ylang Ylang,
a dried chunk of carrot.
Between the TV and the video player
I find the ring that never fitted properly.
I’m waiting to find a slice of the moon
as thin as an eyelash.
I find a stone, from walks on the beach at dawn
when my boy loved getting kisses from the son,
I come across the stash of packs of guitar strings.
my house is inside out.
I want to burn everything with a candle
until I come across the small paper bundle,
rather than admit defeat
and start again.