Tuesday 22nd, morning

by Phoebe Walker

Today I want to say that everything
is exactly normal, just that.
The neat somersault of the calendar
means less than a fleck of spit,
less than an eyelid’s twitch. Nothing.
There are four sickle moon shapes
slivered on each of my palms.

The table,the two chairs
crooked at an angle, parted lips
the breakfast things laid out
as normal.
Blind gloss of bowl and plate.
Butter, gross yellow
Cereal shapes curled, little crusty foetuses
Nothing to speak of.

Just the bad treacle drip of your voice,
pooling on the newspaper,
the acid shape of your tongue, eaten into the spoon.

Just this,
and the quick-quick-slow of my bloodbeat, the thick air around me,
My upturned hands.