Beyond the breakers
where the tides never reach,
we watched a small child flying two kites
and you said ‘that could be me and you’
Born still,
midwife’s mouth turned to scissors
delivering the cruellest cut
Sometimes, the sun rises in
my bedroom at midnight
the TV flickers images of your children
from a hopeless grave can you hear a
ghost call you Mum?
I once wrote to you
c/o of the ‘lonely heart department’
but the postman around those parts
always seemed to spend the day in bed
and anyway, your husband is one of those
macho pricks who thinks flailing fists
are the answer to reason
Remember me
but please forget my fate.
I can’t build a home from poetry
and the third pillow
will never sing me to sleep
The sadness and longing is woven through this piece.
That last stanza lingers like an echo.
I enjoyed this.
Thank you’ I will not let death become me, until the grim reaper reads my rites.