An ongoing project at Bat, Bean, Beam.
I am making a friend
My opinions dart and hide
as flies before spray.
There is something obscuring the
airways of my thoughts.
My optimism swerves
on to the soft shoulder,
there to give the finger
to a passing truck.
A room into which everybody runs,
shouts, then runs away.
A salon of little enmities.
A turning of the word
to births, spaces, marriages.
Words as sheets, as blankets.
Oh, my heart’s long darling.
You were the one who
loved me best.
I will cosset you with clichés.
I will swaddle your memory
in the street, against the
sturm und drang, the
strong caesura; the
fool’s edit, my retweet.
The bed is new by another, adult standard,
but in your terms, it’s old:
one-third of your life.
The bed is small. The bed is white.
The bed is remarkable. When people see it,
I chose it for its price, its
utility – it took the cot mattress –
and also for its swingeing cuteness.
I chose it for you. My fine girl,
the finger-smoothing shape
of the bed is lost to me,
as many things are lost to me,
if you are not in it, in them.
There is no utility in spaces
you empty, except perhaps
to clean and straighten them,
to fold the corners of where you were.
You march around like a big girl
and I trail through your spaces
just behind. I straighten your bed,
comb your hair, pick up your things.
I cannot quite recall a room
a which I stand, without you in it.