The Poetry Society

waiting for the bus, after my gown has turned

to rags and your stubble has left scratches on my face

(your nails leave scratches too, your eyes leave bruises).

jack and coke. lagerlager.

my nose runs onto your cheek.

we were waiting

and I remember it, Achilles, you crossed the road to that

doorway, pavement sloping downhill. We

joked about it.

& you came back with piss all over your shoes

I waited for you all these years,

she told me, her eyes filled with tears

and everexpanding guilt that stretches at the edges of the

possible

I sat down, to write you a love poem, or a letter of apology

shocking pink sugar paper, heart shaped cookie cutters

all manner of other clutter

which fills my desk and kitchen and floors

the sheets I slept in last night. the rain,

where I heard it fall in the space between the curtain

and the glass. that gap between

twin beds,

a hyphen that joins you and I

and the word couple, which rings so resonantly in my ears
I waited for you and I missed the boat, missed the train

dropped my bags on the platform, heard the thud, saw my lilac

breath almost-float into the dark station air and didn't cry a drop.

and there I was, only trying to make bread

and at the time, it didn't seem so bad,

such a crime, to pop it in the oven (after leaving it to prime, to proof)

so tasty. such flavour, soft and warm inside

and so- o, yeasty, perfectly shaped, gentle flavour,

not going to run away this time, a keeper. Savour

the homey smell of bread and then it's easy, I ate it,

after all, that's the reason that I made him &

popped my sheets in on a hot rinse, just to

get off some of that flour.