Did you think I would not
I unpack the books anew
in the next new home,
I’m reminded. It’s true
I blame you for the damage.
That stupid boy too,
but you were the one
who yelled and stamped, who
insisted I not unpack
the boxes he’d wet through
watering along the edge of the verandah
where they were stacked. I knew
I could have saved them,
if I’d got them out quickly to dry in the sun.
‘There’s not enough room,’ you hissed.
I saw that there was. I’d already begun
prising the lid off the first. But I was tired,
you were loud and insistent. Well, done is done.
Or, in this case, not done, and when I finally
freed my treasures, mould and damp had won.
It’s long ago now, and here I am
settling in the final house with the final man.
I unpack the books for the last time,
observing the water marks yet again
still with the old pang, as sharp as ever.
You are fifteen years gone
and this treason not forgotten
among all the better reasons to remember you.
NaPoWriMo Day 3
Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)
They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.