He left
Future version
Hauling back the past fishline, gone

It doesn’t matter it matters it

Matter on a table thing

What is it? A what?

Dead grey
He drove me to school
[was it duty?]
He left bruises
He left words
He left echoes and the noise he used to drown them

He often drove past me homing

Too young celebration frozen fingers clamped on broken glass,
We dreaded, hated and loved

Too many confused looks, too early flinches

He threw up in a bowl
Two sheets of cardboard from me
He never watched me play

I watched him, shirt sleeved over the spade, court
The Irish girl next door, she too young

There was such a fury when the line would
not hold that I clung to mother and wept
and was shamed and again shamed for it

I learned, though not my fastest learning


Food nor grease nor the aired words of beyond him
Could be enough. enough.

If he could have seen
The heave of his mother’s bosom
Heard that catch in the throats of the women:
They held him whistling to work
On his bike when his hair fell thick and black
And the broken watch forgiven

Now that you’ve died all these years
What are you?
You left me sails
And some vistas
And gravel where I should have sand
You left
And when you left you left me grateful
And thank you
For the sails and the summits
But you were still a cunt

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