When we get to hell

When we get to hell

(you’d better not leave

me waiting) it’ll be

the slightly too hot bus

in the middle

of the day when

we never meant to be

going home this early

but there is nothing

more to pass

between us; I caught

my fingers in the doors

of your eyelids

the second

your pupils shrank, spat


at me on the street corner

with the breadcrumb

trail of ants, shattered


and seasonal wings,

unseasonal winds, you’re sighing,

I’m dying (well, at least

we’re not dating) —

I’ve never been much

one for predestination

but god knows

we earned this, the world

is our oyster

cards; senselessly ugly,

lurid as blue paint

and vomit bus seats

like carpet at primary school —

sat A):

bolt upright, impaled

by some anxious

Damocles sword

from neck to hips

or B):

sunken and spineless

pond-minded, like a frog

(or tadpole)

face down and chlorinated —

all rashly claw-dug into

my clammy thighs

like velcro, we detach

cleanly as lips

split, glossed, bleeding

the doors judder shut

behind me, I spit,

shuddering, into the gutter

with the canvas of heaven

stretched tight

above, I exhale

the tail end of a prayer:

that next Sunday will not be the same,

will not be the same.

The End

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