It Got You Too, Lover

 

It Got You Too, Lover

 

A carrot peeled and scraped; you split it,

bring that knife down hard to the board,

going for batons, no, going for discs,

all it takes is your flicking wrist,

forced fingers on the pointed end

handle the rear with mechanised blur;

left with orange bloodstained flesh;

you’ll be rubbing that out for ages,

scrubbing it under the tap, it stains

vicious, nicotine slick: you never smoked.

 

So now just buy a bag of ready chopped,

plenty of those available down the shops,

less bother, these days all it takes

is popping cellophane into microwaves,

rotate and two shakes of a lamb’s tale

they’re steaming in brittle plastic,

burnt fingers as you open slit; cools quick,

that’s it.

 

You said you are not reaching out

while I’m watching England lose to Spain,

all the next day it’s hacking down rain

in pathetic something. The fallacy lies

somewhere within, we all feel connection,

even me, years after facts, looking back.

 

Fear the knife, vicious blade cutting loose

until it hits home – no more spilling juice:

leftovers for which there never will be any use.

I would not recognise you now, I’m lucky;

words like these hit the back of your own net,

deflected off defender’s knees, or maybe

unforced errors  - going down in straight sets.

 

As you say, we took different paths,

I doubt writing would cut it, you hated sport,

took scissors to books and pages ripped,

stabbing hard at the heart of manuscript.

Scarcely gave a thought that day you offed,

upped and out of it, smiled and quit,

to some transformed futures time-slipped.

 

You say it got you, too. A disorder of order,

just so, made you go, pretty cans all in a row,

you researched, looked deep, and I should, too,

that's would you'd do if I were you,

fascinated by yourself, prognosis of validation

and you tore leaves from the rolled wire,

screwed the pages, tossed it in the trash,

scoring lines with blackest biro. There’s more:

A surgeon’s scalpel to prevent the spreading

of two blooms, one that needs dead-heading,

and lumps in my porridge, lumps in my throat.

I wish you well; I would never call you out,

after all the stats are good and room for hope

but I cannot reply to your final note.