A lost poem
prickles the tip
of your tongue
the back of your throat
like a coat in mothballs
which you might
have sent to Oxfam
laughs in your sleep
waking to a glass
half empty
the memory of a name
you know it was here somewhere
when you sniff the air
the tang of autumn
in August
the one you thought you put
in a purse
in a pocket
in a drawer
in the attic
or the one that was never in your head
only your heart
the one that promised all
and left
not like the found
which lies on its back
in the middle of the road
lets you tickle its ears
follows you home
lolls in front of the fire
leaves hair all over your lap
*Emily Dening lives in Cambridge and is currently working in a sixth form college library. She’s been widely published in poetry journals and her pamphlet, A Stash of Gin appeared in 2008.
