I brush my fingers, my palm
across his hot forehead
over and again
the only comfort I can think
something about being five or six
years old, measels, or scarlet fever
a childhood disease, my mother's hand
soothing, cool, this gesture somehow
welded to my ideoloy of love
I wonder why the past always fucking interferes
and if I wasn't so alone would I be turning my life
into a second rate poem.
I can't think if there's a patron saint of illness
to petition, so I turn to St Christopher
whom I claim as my own in my father's blood
Not every daughter is given such a gift
but that dirty little secret stays
in my dirty little attic, whilst on secrets;
They say that 'if only' are the saddest words
ever written, but that's not fair to 'only'
which is only trying to take the sting out of things
'only friends' 'only once' or 'only day dreaming'
but 'if'! if triggers the buckeroo
'if' should be a four letter word
'if friends', 'if dreams', 'if you love me,' 'if you!'
There is no poignant end to this poem
like life, it just stumbles along and on
He opens his eyes, asks for water
and I'm sick of myself and stop writing