is not the name of a boy band, though it could be,

I think, and then how it’s so easy to lay the blame

at the feet of others. But if you hold the brush,

then you’re responsible for how the painting looks.

As surely as the artist makes the art, people

make the mess they call their lives. I am

no Goddess, but I have to remind myself that

what I have with Johnno I created, though it took

more than six days and six nights of labour

and I don’t remember resting on the seventh.
When Johnno unwraps the white parcel of fish

and chips on the grassy ledge at Brighton-Le-Sands,

I want to throw it all to the seagulls and let them

squabble and bicker right down to the very

last chip. They prowl around our feet, these

shameless salt and vinegar scavengers. 
I rejoiced when I floated through the early

months of coupledom, but now I’m stranded

in this limbo of Friday night picnics, Saturdays

pashing at the movies, Sundays given over

to a trek up some bloody mountain track

while the flies circle, my t-shirt sticks to my back

and my calves threaten unprecedented strike action.

It’s as if I’ve nailed up my volition in some tea chest

and left it in storage while it waits for my ship

to find the harbour. Botany Bay is calm, serene,

the wind fresh, the sun slipping out of sight

with this euphoric belly flop into the early evening. 
How did I manage this—a thinking, independent

woman who can’t say what’s on her mind

because her man is going away to the war? And

that’s assuming I know what I want to say.

Now that he’s leaving he seems more attractive

somehow, this modern hunter gatherer

who might not have caught the fish

with his own hands, but thought enough of me

to pack a plastic goblet, corkscrew and a bottle

of plonk—this crisp, fruity moselle that goes

straight to my head, the lights shimmering

in the dark water like a hallelujah chorus.