When the trainer asks
‘did you forget to breath’
it sounds stupid,
and unfortunately true.
A little like thinking
too much about the doing
so the thoughts twist knots
into your limbs.
The panic welling
in much the same way
as your lungs swelling up
against your rib-cage.
You were sure you were,
then you’re not sure,
suddenly so unsure
you can’t even breath
without counting
each gasp.
In…
out…
in…
in…
out..
out..
In…
In…
In…
Out…
Out…
Out..
…
When it was good
he could trace his name
through freckles on her back.
Could see all the ways he belonged
in that bed,
with her,
in that house.
Until belong became belong to,
possession possessed
in that bed, in that house
by her.
She put it to the back of a wardrobe,
in a bag of mismatched things,
none of any use these days
but none the sort you throw away.
The sort you keep until they’re found
by curious small hands cooped up
by the rain on window panes.
Discovering you before them.
We warp in the heat,
buckle beneath the buzz
of thick cut air
pressing in on all sides.
Can’t blame trains
for stumbling.
As unsteady on tracks
as we are.
Yesterday they seemed
straighter, smoother, solid.
Today everything is
melting,
running into gutters.
I would stop too.
Choke my mixed signals
and lurch into whatever
station offered refuge.
Poem for the hottest July day on record.
Some days I don’t need a husband
I need scaffolding.
So I can tend to the broken,
the busted windows
the cracking paint,
the guttering that doesn’t drain
when the rain comes in
and all the sediment
circling the drain
but never quite clearing.
Some days I need that from you,
and nothing more.
Carol J Forrester 
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