Baby Pony Tail

Your camouflage tracksuits bottoms

my fuchsia jumper you loved to wear

your navy Levi’s hoodie; soft, sporty girl.

Our grey and white fleece Disney pyjamas

a collage of the things you wore around the place

a sleepy face, putting the kettle on.

The lesbian jeans the night we met

your plethora of swimsuits

my favourite – a blue lean dolphin in the cubicle

your bloody flip flops on your beautifully meaty feet

the sound of them around the flat.

Your horror at mine – barefoot and infant

The tacky t shirts with the text I hated

the crisp shirts you wore

with pride.

I

was

so

proud

of

you.

That damn bucket hat that made me cringe

but you thought

you were the coolest

I wouldn’t dare break that

I said nothing

Smiled.

The cringe turned into endearment 

and yet another reason to

love you.

I loved you in that damn bucket hat.

Your baby ponytail I adored and teased

I’ve forgotten the joke, the ponytail joke.

Feels poignant – I’m devastated.

The memories fall out of me

until one day there will be nothing left.

Bloomsbury Bee; Virginia

She lands on a letter dated the twenty second, the birth date of the writer, which writer?
me or her
scribbled on the right

of the page, a postal divination
sent with dead skin and trees
on a small letter from her, the helpless creature one
a letter before the death of the patriarchy
a home
that’s hers as much as the balding
her bricks and water dissolve
but there’s always Helpless Creature
Incarnation, deformation of the bones of Bloomsbury Perhaps.
She likes you, she walks across the spine
of your book, stroking her antenna between the words Your words, her nectar, or an old memory of Bloomsbury Perhaps.
She treks the peaks of the individual letters
Reaches the mountain top and does it all again,
she has landed on something familiar, something
a home
shared between the species,
holding hands with the ages
Something that spins in the background,
falling through our fingers
Something
That we feel only when we’re half asleep,
half awake
Spinning with our fingers reached out
It’s as if it doesn’t matter that she isn’t a bee at all
A wasp tip toes on your prose, Helpless Creature.
A betrayal of a poem and
the ‘female of the species
is deadlier than the male.’

The Italian Cafe

I sit in this Italian café to feel home

to hear the songs, the waiter sing-along

and wink, a wink that’s familiar; playful.

I sit in this Italian café to be by your side.

You’re with me as I sip my Americano

smile at Caruso

smell the wood fire oven

and remember our missions to find one in the city.

Serious pizza connoisseurs. Childlike joy.

That was us.

So, I sit in this Italian café and be a child for a moment

sheltered from the world

cloaked in simple pleasures

soaked in a life that was mine for a moment.

I’ll sit in this damn Italian café just to fall back in time

just for a moment

feel the lightness you draped over me like a loving jacket

but no match for my sadness

My heaviness that drowned you in dark coffee beans

Ring-stained cup.

I’ll sit in this Italian café to forget the bitter cups of coffee

the cruel words that ripped my heart like a soft croissant

and careless hands.

Oh, how careless we were.

I’ll sit in this Italian café to remember how gentle

we held each other’s light, even if it was for moment

maybe that’s all we have

If so, I’ll forever hold onto it

Smile and keep my hands careful

Soft