At your funeral the church was invested
with white flowers; they decided
pink was wrong and
blue was ridiculous.
Mother wore a purple dress.
The young priest said the mass,
he kept it brief, no one was in the mood.
Father goes to your grave every week
but you’re not there; it sinks
with a sigh on a regular basis,
he fills it up again
with soil and china rabbits.
Moth Balls and Silverfish
When I sleepwalk you follow me
into the kitchen and other rooms
where you move things ever so slightly.
So slightly that I think it’s me.
You wear Nike trainers,
smart and silent.
I know when you are coming:
I get a certain pulling of the heart,
feels like a spider web you put inside me;
it contains the amount I want you back.
Your clothes are in the attic
folded in boxes with
moth balls and silverfish, all good company.
But no one looks. We wouldn’t want to see
what is lost, or that the trainers are missing.
Read ‘The Painter’ at Ink Sweat & Tears.