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Mandibles In The Conservatory (after Kleinzahler) by Julia Deakin OK earwigs, the game's up. I thought I'd thrown you off, but no it seems that first Cold War turnout from every loose slab round the coal bunker marked the start of an endurance march for you from Potteries village school to Manchester, across the Pennines and through university. 42 winters later I see nothing fazed you: eight I-Spy books, Leslie Crowther's autograph, 900m backstroke cider hangovers - you kept up till I find you here, suspended like something in amber between the perspex roof panes of the conservatory waiting, pincers flexed (life after death always your party piece) to insinuate yourselves indoors, into our marriage. So come clean: what is it you're after, exactly? Pet status? Walks? A tin of top brand innards set out nightly in a clean bowl? Vet's bills? Your own chair by the fire? A mention in the will? Or just - a softening? Hope, where none was before? Kind words? A sympathetic ear? © Julia Deakin « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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