There was still tinsel around the picture frames,
all smiles and glitter staring back at you
in that echoing space
when the meals are finished
and the bottles drunk
yet the end is not quite upon us.
So we wait
and pretend
that this will be the year that we do something different.
No one explained that best before
was subjective at best.
Instead they suggested
that you were lucky to find a man
willing to settle for spoiled produce
so close to the sell by date.
Did it occur to you
the rot might be them?
I’m still getting used to this lion in my mouth.
But sometimes
the notion of seen and not heard
still aches in my chest,
despite the waterfall of words I seem to spout
whenever my lips part.
When you’re trying to stay silent,
some times it helps if you cover up the abscene
with something meaningless
and hollow,
like empty poetry.
Laughter is also good.
If you can laugh about it,
it can’t of been so bad.
But time can chip away at you if you let it.
Too much silence
can eat the soul of you completely.
Not matter how small
the seed.
If we just don’t mention it,
ignore it and carry on,
then it’s not that big of a deal
so why make a fuss.
Women always make a fuss.
At night I feel silly,
walking with my car keys turned
to the sharp edge of a key-chain,
cold and hard against my palm
Alone is when I think about the school corridor,
his face split in two with that sneer
as I tried edging past him,
never close enough to touch
but clear and looming
this way was no longer mine to go.
In the light of my own hallway
I drop keys, and bag, and shoes,
and every memory of him,
the other lurking moments too.
We don’t speak about those here,
we don’t like to make a fuss,
those are the things for silent, empty rooms,
and notepads destined to gather dust.
I think if I was to write a collection of poetry then it would be called Words For Silent, Empty Rooms and I’d fill it with poems like Office Bitch and Legs Eleven.
I’ve kept all the pieces of you that I could find.
Stored them safely,
wrapped away
in a box somewhere hidden and warm,
until I can remember how the puzzle goes
and slot you back into yourself,
a little more fragile perhaps
but whole again.
I found the pip between my teeth
an hour after the bitter bite
of garden currents
had faded from my tongue.
In the middle of a meeting,
too close between collegues
to spit or pick
the pith from my mouth.
Instead I chased it
from cheek to cheek
along the ring of my lower lip
to the hollow beside my molars.
The presenter lost his place,
tapped again at his laptop,
muttered a word ,
asked someone to call IT.
I swallowed by accident.
Choked,
drew a worried glance,
waved it away with a glass of water.
Outside the cleaner checked bins,
roll of bags at her hip,
quick, quiet between the desks,
she whisked any evidence away.
The Summer heat has been making it difficult to sit down and write. Nowhere feels comfortable and I’m constantly shifting position to try and ease that sticky, gross feeling that comes with trying to do anything at all during hot, summer days.
I’d really love to hear people’s thoughts on this poem as it just sort of took shape this evening and I can very rarely tell if that makes it a good poem or a really bad one. Either way I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading/listening to it.
Close up bunch of fresh raspberries
Carol J Forrester 
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