Poems I might have written

Louise Carson

1

You were everything to aim for.

Only to touch you –

Later, ennui.

Snowflakes fall between glass and sun’s glow.

2

Full-throated agony kept landlady, neighbours awake,

wore down my teeth.

Detached, silent house. Muffled majority.

One quarter of my heart sobs on.

3

Depression took pills and alcohol,

foreshadowed cousin’s later death.

Vomit dries on floor.

Scrubbing brush wakes me up.

4

Oh, shame. A few beatings,

a couple of slaps.

Love-need.

Choked off.

5

Pelvic bones ache, loosen, at the thought of her.

Leaving, she entered me.

Even this deepest love,

changes.

6

Sometimes the old win the wars,

take possession.

But the young have hours.

Their bodies heat the room.

7

Dread, the hunched supervisor, waits to crush hope.

It will take me over again.

Be calm.

All love must lie down and doze.

8

Then what are tears? Sweet homage, ghost gifts,

liquid feelings.

Eye-wash to loosen grit.

Heart’s anti-freeze.

Image: Harry Rajchgot (2023)

Third anniversary

Louise Carson

And even after six hard frosty nights,

dry standing corn still sings with insect life.

The squirrel jerks its tail, clucks my approach,

relayed by blue jay cry and thudding grouse.

Reflecting colour up, the fallen leaves

(it’s not autumn unless I mention these),

the fallen leaves complete my metaphor:

feet grind them into finest mould.

Where is she now that time, time’s her betrayed?

The address in my hand’s too small to read.

By morning’s side then, somewhere near a farm.

In the crypt, other women keep her warm.

Did I, do I ever, visit her grave?

My heart her grave, I walk there every day.