It isn’t New Year yet so happy what?
Till then it’s Boxing Day every morning.
Empty bags hang off the radiator.
Did it mean
we didn’t love each other
that morning he gave me up
though that same night he said let’s marry?
My striped dress hung
along my body
my abdomen as I walked, a balloon
sinking back down
its own string
after the decision.
The baby would have had to sleep in a drawer.
(not you who refuse to believe improbable notions)
The smallest cell refuses to die
in its everness.
Now I live in an attic
garden is the chewed melon string of sky.
Old bins, old books. Death’s hardly ethical
in the light of such continuity. Last week
the CEO of a charity named in my will
wrote to suggest ways to retrieve what I’ve lost.
Look, Christmas photos
of others’ other
Pocoyo, Juggling Balls.
from The Clockwork Gift (Shearsman, 2009), © Claire Crowther 2009, used by permission of the author