Let it be okay that it took me a while to get here
 
If not better then equally fine to be
the goldfinch . . .

How do we pull ourselves back
when we’ve nothing to hold on to?

Find a way clear
or stay? Wait.

How to not exist

Allow yourself to be elbowed aside
become a non-person
an avoider of lingering looks

I Want to Become
 
a weasel, in a sleeky, twisty body,
all eyes and teeth like a deadly zip.

I joined a secret society
advertised in the back pages of a magazine.
I forget which, but I found it nestled
in 8pt font and fancy border
between time share apartments in Lanzarote
and the commemorative plates.

long weekend ← or ← perhaps ↑ summer holiday →
from the back of someone’s car boot ↑ the strange →
sweated plastic all pink and blue and folded →

We’re drinking wine in your kitchen, months before
the hot oil of my concern begins to spit.

You notice the crepe of your neck and belly first.
This skin you bake in the sun.

Watching the ‘Strictly’ Results Show on a Sunday night
 
Knowing what we know about the pain of the world,
who wins and who loses might feel like a betrayal.