let her sleep. It is not a day
The rain is cold on the windows,
but not in my hair, I sit where
it used to fall,
the wetness swelling pages,
chilling walls. How many times
did I wring
the neck of the sodden cloth, and
tip wrung water from the bucket?
is sharp-tongued at the windows –
it’s not a day for waking.
I put my feet
on the heater we found
at the tip. Lifted tenderly,
it was light
as a baby, clean and white,
now it pulses
on our hands, we heaved her things
from my car: musty mattresses,
school projects, picture frames, Cuisine
magazines, a bag of clay. Once
on my own with a load of his shoes.
Each one worn in its own way.
It took a long
time to throw them pair by pair
into the clothing bin, its
nipping my wrist each time, the thud
each time. I’m glad she didn’t come
for that. My
are cloth lavender, hers thick rubber
and red. She could only ever find one.
her naked hand like a saint, the other
doing the work of two –
a potter’s hands:
dark-skinned and nimble. Load upon
load into the bowels of the concrete
loading bay –
the boy on the ramp gloveless
and helpful, the two of us
the detritus – the potential
for treasure, load upon load until
the blue house
was stripped clean, and locked with a key
on a string around her neck. The last
thing she’ll do
is put the cat in the cage, and
the cage in the car. But it’s not
a day for waking.
Her back seat is stuffed with old
suitcases, vintage skirts, an iron
pot, notebooks –
pot, notebooks –
where for the cage? I'll help
with the cat; we’ll both
for that. The red glove is on
the floor of my car – a fantastic
I have no idea where my
gloves are. Let her sleep.
from the sky, but it’s not a day
not any kind of day
Do check out the fantastic poem by David Gregory on the Tuesday Poem hub - and in the sidebar: such gems as always - from one of my faves by Yeats to Orchid Tierney's avant-garde poems. All worth a look on a Tuesday.