the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

THREE WEEKS

Almost three weeks now and everything is different.
I suppose I expected it to be different once you'd gone.
The house is quieter.
The fridge is half-empty.
Your things are still there, now lying idle in the home you never got to retire in.

I found your glasses last night,
And cried over the food spots on the edge of the dining table.
You'd have hated that the table wasn't wiped clean,
But we can't bring ourselves to erase
This tiny trace of you,
This evidence that once you were here.

I had to replace a toilet seat the other day,
And hang a picture on the wall -
Things I could do for myself,
But I always called you to help me
So that even though I was an adult
You knew I still needed you.
And I try to fill the vacancy you left
With the songs and films and stories you loved.
It's harder than I thought it would be.

So instead we move around your things,
And we don't sit at your place at the table,
And we stare up at the sky at night
While your grandson tells us that you sleep in the stars,
And we wish we believed as fervently as he
That you could hear us.


© mjc 15 November 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.