Once the decision was made,
you were ruthless.
You hoovered away our life.
Shuffled poems, letters, and sleeves crusty with bleeding hearts into drawers.
Locked them, and threw away the key, making sure I saw it arc, scintillating,
over the back wall and down the embankment.
Watching your demolition, I waited quiet at the foot of the stairs.
Like a man on his way to an execution he thinks he deserves.
The unspoken agreement that it would always end like this stapling my lips shut.
Pinned together by the promises of expecting nothing.
When you deemed it right, we were to be un-realised.
“I will run out,” you’d said. “Always do.
No lies, not between us.”
No whining. No reminiscing.
No last minute pub-garden rescues over bitter ale.
No relying on fevered bodies to make things right.
You had run your hand across my belly, making it stiffen.
“It won’t be that,” you had said. “It will be other stuff.”
Quiet now. Waiting for the bullet. Eyes fixed on the sky.
Click, staple, click, staple. Your timing.
That was always the deal.
Casting around the newly laid graveyard, now neat as a pin,
untidy man neatly stowed away,
jumbled memories marshalled into neat rows,
you straightened the flowers
I had bought you, for this day,
self consciously, in the middle of our dinner-partied, wine-soaked table
where once you had bent, looking over your shoulder,
hair tumbling, laughing madly at me.
“Afters. Come on.”
Brushing passed me, you hurried up the stairs, and re-appeared,
bearing in front of you like an offending sceptre,
a solitary, white edged and almost new toothbrush.
For a moment, your face trembled and hope leapt.
Then, click staple, our lips were closed again.
You swallowed the toothbrush into my breast pocket,
gave it a little pat, and then another, more thoughtfully.
Looked at me for a moment,
and walked to the door, working the key
I had just given you back.
I pavemented, eyes squinting against the sudden light,
refusing a blind.
As it closed behind me, I saw you through the bowl of glass
fish-eyed through the mock Tudor door
grasp your broom and resume your busy sweeping.
You never glanced back as you swept and swept
your tears washing
the kitchen floor we had once danced on
all night
.
Anyone interested in checking out my volume of poetry – READ ME – 71 Poems and 1 Story – can find it here: http://tinyurl.com/7y55a7v
Keep the conversation going. Tell others! Feel free to print the article, too.
Like this:
Like Loading...
And that’s the longest headline we’ve ever put on a post – hope it flagged you down.
Well, This Is What I Think 