By | 1 February 2015

I am trying to throw things
away. Say, these two cups,
his always green, mine always blue,
in the long dark the two of us,
me stacked inside him, or him
stacked inside me. I fear they’d shatter now
on separation, bright bundle
of cutting shards.

What even is this –
museum of the artefacts
of people who did not love me
enough? See here, this
teal-handled knife, from a caravan set.
How careless she buttered her bread then,
bikini bottoms ruched like a shower cap,
face cast down in the slide frame, still years away
from fool enough
to imagine a child.

But I wake in the night, afraid I
really did throw those cups away.
Lurch to the kitchen.
They are here. The moon is senseless
on the neighbour’s car. I am part
of a chess set and all the other pieces
are misery; I cannot discard them;
they cannot discard me; there is only
gambit and check, gambit and check,
back in the box and start again,
and what if I just threw
everything from a high place then
ran down and set it alight? I’d have
to buy more, and all I seem to have
in my purse is this one pearl button
and this tie-pin, slightly rusted.

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