The flowers on the mantelpiece faded
eventually their jewel bright, improbably optimistic unenglish heads
drooped and drained of their overheated hue and the palm leaf
greenery complementary dried to crisp brown spikes.
The water in which they stood turned brackish, scummy
Staining the cheap glass vase with rings that marked each days transpiration
You knew I hated dead flowers, computers of the hours
That I spent staring at from my imprisoning repose
But I don’t suppose that it matters, now, least of all to me,
free as I am from such petty concerns.
You sat beside me thoughtful grieving
And held my hand as I surrendered not quite
Believing that I wouldn’t be home, soon, to change them
As I always did in uncharacteristic bursts of domesticity
You can’t bear to move a single thing that reminds you
Blinds you to the recent past
But you have to try and move forward dear
Remember we joked that it wouldn’t couldn’t last?
Like those damned dead flowers, self beheaded, shredded petals on a dusty surface
I’m not here now to demand that someone makes them disappear.
Only I fear that you need a civilising hand
To refresh the mantelpiece’s macabre display
And since it can’t be me now I suggest
As if you can hear me over the roaring repetition of dead dead dead
You get someone new in
© C Jackson 2010
No reproduction permitted in any form without the written permission of the author