From the upcoming collection ‘decolonising the broken heart’.
Published in Oxford Magazine
Eighth Week Michaelmas Term, 2023

and you say she’s gone for good

(for Jane Kenyon)

the cyclone
took your home and your
wits last monsoon but
that’s not true – you
were done after that
when she deserted you
on the patio overlooking
the avenue of poplars, tall,
spindly against the sky,
where you first touched
her lips with yours
and felt their tenderness
I follow you to
your hearth that glows
with butt-ends of cigarettes,
the potato peels you dump in
there every evening, and
the writing paper
turned to balls of crepe
she said she loved you
or didn’t she? but you
did and that’s all that
matters now when the only
sign of her is your face,
her wardrobe,
her scented handkerchief
(it was scented), and
that half-drunk tea-cup
……………………….on the dining table

~~

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