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He will have tried to tell you
how profoundly parting may affect you,
but already you’ll have eased into tomorrow
like a snake that sloughs its skin instinctively.
Prepare for simple facts; his face, gone;
having no-one, now, to tell.
There are no answers.
This, you will know well,
and yet you will have found which memories
have frayed or jagged edges,
which desires are blunted smooth,
which raw like bloodied egg; as slippery.
When he asks you how you see the future,
you will see your secrets safely stacked
within this room, like caskets in a pyramid.
Impossible to think of him elsewhere –
shopping maybe, or in shorts, on holiday –
vulnerable, deceitful even, or as selfish
as he has, at times, permitted you to be.
And at the end, a touch will be unthinkable.
The necessary gap between you, over which
you could not tread, will now become immovable.
One final meeting of the eyes must be enough.
It may be Spring outside, in which case all the trees
will be in pink. The sun may shine.
A taxi or a bus may well be late –
and come without apology or explanation,
and its seats be warm.
You will feel no sadness as you go, will not
look back. In fact, you will undoubtedly believe
that it was you who chose to leave.
These feelings will not last for long.
Pause
There was a moment
before the blow came
of which I need to speak.
Not of the blow itself –
connecting, real,
which lurched a childhood on,
but of the moment
before the blow came
in which all things were held.
A moment’s brilliant view
of possibilities – a child
who fought, raged, called out for end;
a child who did not need
to love; a child
who spoke, was heard.
No. It is not the blow
but the moment’s brilliant view
of which I need to speak.
Shells
We live as they have lived. Send out
frail signals in a blind worm’s Braille;
feed, expel, anchor feet in sand
when tides recede, digging deeper
to escape all looming danger,
snapping shut our secret selves; zip
like scallops from a predator,
jerk flinchingly to miss a blow
from tentacles which only wished
to stroke. Heads down, safely grazing,
we chatter in our happy packs,
while everywhere we find a niche,
build families inside soft rock;
declare ourselves a perfect fit.
Death brings these empty shells to shore.
And still we come, collecting them,
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