There is only this

A scavenger has scraped its way

through the back way when I didn’t notice.

Under the ribs, smashed through the chest,

It tried to forage for a heart that’s not there.

Every artery and stem of me

Alights on the fact that she’s not coming back.

 

There is only this: this absolute and utter opposite of bliss.

Insects crawling over my skull, inside and above,

I am empty, there’s no life left without her.

 

A hermit undercover, why can’t I

say how much I love her and miss her?

Salt on paper, ink blots on letters to ashes.

A blusher brush that smells of perfume.

A top I stole; cling on and hold on.

 

I am not very well. No one can tell

Because I am a good player of hide and seek.

My feelings are in the airing cupboard, in the towels,

Like a word with no vowels, I’m incomplete.

Resources depleted, I am a carcass.

Have nothing left.

 

Childhood

The glass; half empty or half full?
Looking through a magnifier it seems like the dust stands out
but in hindsight it's actually great.
Even in photographs I falsely overcompensated.
The chip told me it would be better when I was older.

Now I'm looking over that shoulder
and I can see that we had it alright.
Better than that.
I've been a little bit of a twat to
say divorce defined me.
Their love underlined us both.

Dad sang us to sleep with tales of rattlesnakes and bugs;
he helped me ride a bike, drive a car,
just recently filled me with air.
He made things appear from behind my ear,
held my nose in his thumb like a magician.
Taught us made-up words and we'd listen intently.
French numbers and swimming.
He taught me about winning.
Lost his religion on the karaoke;
Mr Nereda, my dad, the bee's knees.
Our dog died.
That was the first time I heard him cry.
He made me sausage sarnies, then re-started his life;
met an angel and cleverly made her his wife.
He's worked every day of my life. 
Just now I saw a moving image,
him waving a flower in front of my face
to make me smile as a baby.

Mum was always her.
"Hello, love."
Looking at pictures isn't enough,
so I've gone back to the archives in my head.
And there are so many moments.
Cliffe Castle, Colne, casualty with Dan,
She smelled of Ysatis and Lamberts.
I remember sleeping on clouds.
We played with Magic on a rainy day.
Dan snooker-cueing porcelain dolls and
cutting hair from trolls.
She made us read, made us laugh, made us people.
Christmas with mountains of presents,
mince pies, carrots, the lot.
These are the things I forgot in my
misspent stroppiness.
And in that moving image,
she was with him, waving flowers and feathers
in front of me, in a pram, dressed in pink.
Why didn't I stop and think about a life before forever?

The cup was half empty but brimming
with invisible poison
and I surpassed naïve.
You can't pin a heart onto a sleeve made of glass.
But in a furnace, the glass melts and under pressure it shatters;
I don't suppose it really matters but now I know.

Those days in the past I lambasted:
they were a blast.

Back

There is a sliver of light under the door.
I want to make haste,
but am unsure of the risks.
In the light I must see things as they are;
not from a manufactured “afar” or through a
self-induced fug.

Surely, though, the bright must be better than this,

an unending darkness, and what for?
Memories are scattered all over the floor and the table, burying me
and I’m not entirely able to surface.

Sometimes I think I’ve been swimming

to the shore from the sea but, if anything,
I find myself
on an empty peninsula.

On one side is destruction and on the other:

something I can’t quite see
through binoculars of grief.
From disbelief to sadness and near madness:
I’ve felt it.

In trying to find shelter I realise there is none

 that I can find; I must make it.

Shake and slap myself in the face to sort myself out.

Shout and scream and claw my way back.

 

Clare

I saw you as an enemy.

A threat to him, Dan and me.
You tried so hard and we were awful;
what an absolute mess to scramble into.
Like a wildflower, though, you stuck in there.
Despite a sixteen-year-old bitch with blonde hair.

 Once I ungracefully emerged from adolescence

I could see this “Clare”.
A travelling chick, beautiful and cool;
even with Dad…you were nobody’s fool.
Clever, funny and smart. In the end,
you became my dearest and most treasured friend.

You know me. Because you tried to.

You’re a riverbank that I can cling on to.
A sturdy rock under a waterfall.
When things get too fast, you put on the brakes,
and I don’t always thank you enough.

And of course there’s some stuff I can’t say.

Like now she’s gone, and even before,
I consider you a mother.
Myself and my brother: our hearts would break
if you weren’t here.

Thank you,
thank you for always being here.

H

You watered me when I was wilting.
I was tilting to one side and you propped me up.
You told me not to give up.
so I didn't.
I kept hold of your hand and you shovelled
me into a lifeboat.
Somehow you managed to keep me afloat.
I will never be able to sufficiently say:
"You kept me alive and made me okay".
You're a warm weather forecast.
My present, future and (thank god for my cat) the past.

Bypass

You think I've passed you by
but I couldn't think of anything worse.
However seeing a body in a hearse
brought some truths home.
You are my one and only,
not in a melodramatic way,
but a pedantic "I don't want to be an orphan" way.
We do need to cling on to each other,
but like magnets we sometimes repel one another.
I'm like a lawn you've kept mowing;
you'll never stop owing me a little snip
here and there.
It's control; you don't like that
taken out of your hands because you're strong in every way.
I have bypassed today,
not for want of caring but
for fear of the excruciating pain of
losing someone again.
My love is a stalwart and will not shudder
but the boat beneath me
is lacking a rudder.
You try. Tell me to get by.
My heart, though, is a pressed leaf.
Nothing inside, underneath or beyond
tomorrow.
Apologies are never accepted;
shame a migrant stowaway and disease
that riddles me.
You will never consider me a person,
not a child.
I have so many regrets
and owe debts for the acts and the rants.
Fear like the shadows of spider plants
and plagues of fire ants crawl on me.
Will you ever say "sorry" to me?
Doubtful.
Hateful.
Spiteful.
Selfish.
That's me.
I wish I could show you
the person I've attempted to be.
Come to my place, see my life,
read my letter.
Know your daughter. You might be proud,
if you met her.