Finding The Wolves

Poems I wrote, but which were too esoteric or required too much context to be publishable elsewhere. I wanted to share them, and a medium like this where I can explain the context seemed the best way.

Written in September 2015. By chance I came across Maggie Stiefvater's
Wolves of Mercy Falls series in a charity shop, and when I looked inside them I realised they were the copies I'd gone to great lengths to get signed for a former friend of mine. We haven't spoken since late 2013, and this was basically the final nail in the coffin that used to be our friendship, as it helped me get over it. It was difficult at the time to realise that he no longer valued even the memory of what we used to have. 

Finding The Wolves

Three books, abandoned in a charity shop.
It’s without expectation that I turn
to the title page, half-laughing at myself,
but your name there isn’t a joke.
The picture I remember seeing drawn
is the furthest thing from a joke.
An hour and a quarter on a train station
in the snow with your books heavy in my bag
to get them signed for you isn’t a joke:
then home again, fingers still numb
from all the clutching at straws I’d done.
Not laughing. Nobody here is laughing.

Now, two years down the line, you don’t care
enough for the stories or the memories of me
to give any of it room on your shelf.
I buy them. Of course I can’t stop myself
giving them a home where they don’t belong.
After all that, the joke’s on you.
For Andy, she wrote on the title page,
but now they’re mine, they’re mine, they’re mine.

The End

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