pi & anne

Another poetry journal allergic to inner-world-shit in present tense. I try to fake it, so ‘she’ makes it, all the same I hate it.

Don’t they know it feels like lying?

emptying the dead man’s cup into the sink
something’s lost, inevitably

oolong
i check my pockets
for telltale tracks

it rains heavily on our conservatory roof
still and all i declare it’s the squirrels

She tells us that her daughter now has a girl-friend and how much she would have liked her to have a normal life. I want to ask what she means by this, yet she already goes on.

Don’t they know it feels like dying?