Pulmonaria

 

That modest shrub has come up again in the garden,

over in a damp corner by the shed. It’s the one with

the toadskin leaves shaped like tiny maps of Florida,

somewhere he’s pretty sure they never went to.

He remembers it now, but not how it got there, the shrub

that is; its name he thinks he probably never knew.

It must’ve been something his wife planted, years ago,

before the business with her knees, before those shadows

appeared that the doctor had to point out to him twice,

using the tip of his hornet-striped pencil, though she

saw them immediately, recognising them like old friends

she was meeting from a train just pulled into a station

on a warm afternoon, whose faces hadn’t changed a bit.

 

 

first published in Whale Road Review, issue 6, spring 2017

Widow

She’s now happy to give in, let the weeds
win over at least a corner of the garden,

over there, between the blue clapboard shed
and the fence, too lazy to hold itself up,

furthest from the back porch, where it all
happened. No-one else sees, she supposes.

The rosebay willow herb fills up the view
every July, with its clamour of firework spikes,

more reliably than the delphiniums ever did;
the hoverflies love the nettles, the ragwort,

and bees spoil themselves on crowns of clover.
The redundant sickle hangs from a thick nail.

 

first published in The Cannon’s Mouth, Issue 61, 2016

 

All breakages must be paid for

 

Too much shiny cloth gathered
between the trouser legs and
around the ankles of the
inevitably off-the-peg suit.
Too much product on too little hair.
Asked to stand a step higher
by the serious photographer,
he clings on to his bride,
half like she’s a chainsaw
in the poorly co-ordinated clutches
of a novice, half like she’s
something unimaginably fragile,
and no amount of tenderness
will prevent her future destruction.

 

first published in Love & Ensuing Madness, Rat’s Ass Review, 2016