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you and me walked back through woods as green and lumpful as thepuke we sicked up after the first ever alcohol in
holidays when i thought my skull was bending and that you'd dig it
from the ears and preen it up as your dumb little trophy.
you tell me if i haven't bled once yet i'll never have babies plod out,
then you chucked scissors at my fat lap and grinned
while i just imagined sticking them
in your snide eyes. and i loved you and loved you and
loved you - and i still do
because the moon was hanging there like a blobby button sewn
loose to the sky,
so that we watched and so that you held my stumbling hand
as if it was a letter.
you spend hours sticking flappy petals to the earthworms
and then explain how you've created moths.
you say that you're training to be god so that when he retires
you'll apply to the sky
or if he should die
you'll apply to the sky
and show them how you're
the best guy for the job. you say you'll teach animals human talk
and cancel wars - and hand out these tiny awards
which you'll have carved from the stars to sweet, sweet
good people.
and
when we came back from the cinema you flicked
lost popcorn off my first bra and said soon you'd write
cherished scripts about smiling.
and, and
later I'll remember you
in erratic photo albums -
stashed in attics
where fingers scuttle to you and
collapse at your image.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1045 times
Written on 2005-08-31 at 14:51
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cory Crook |
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epohonci |
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chasingtheday |
