Four poems on desertion
The little death
The bed is fissured with shadow.
When the snow came you said you loved me
as much as you ever had, and left
this little death. My animal cry,
a fracture across a field of white.
No more talk
a trail of full stops
sputtering from the sky's wire,
ticking into the telephone's gullet,
its moulded lips still mouthing Oh.
I ring with our front door's closing syllable.
I ring my answer to the phone's silence.
Across this great gap you hold me like the wait for an echo.
My body rings and rings.
In every bite was the bite of it.
The jangling nerve reaching back to you—
to that place in the past where we clinked teeth,
left bitemarks enamelled in memory.
I've had you concreted in
so that not even a yelp can escape me.
Unfeeling. This hardening
is a way to grieve.
Poetry Wales Autumn 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Rosie Breese
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission