Saturday, February 4, 2012


“New Year’s Eve” © Mike
Absalom

Isn’t it enough
that I’ve spent the last
twelve months
dealing with death threats
from doctors?

When we went to bed last
night it was boiling for rain.
I spent the night in
fruitless knocking
on the Berlin wall of your cervix
and all I could remember of
two thousand and eleven
was that fat man hanging
hemp-strangled in his barn
waiting for Christmas morning
to be unwrapped.

A pink geranium in the
bathroom flower pot
crept up stealthily under the
sink last night
and stretched its neck
horribly,
looking for a drop, of water,
I mean.
But although nothing fell
beneath your own rattling tiles
the flower stayed put,
peering at me for hours
with the one-pointedness of a
clairvoyant vegetable.

Outside the storm drummed on
the dormers
like music at an execution,
announcing, allegorically of course,
the arrival of my body bag.

Isn’t it enough
that I’ve spent the last
twelve months
dealing with death threats
from doctors
without you dying on me?

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