by Em Power

And you, you will be sat there surrounded by crackling,
yellowed pages with a wad of fifties stuffed in your mouth.
And me, I’ll be sat here all picturesque, swathed in marble
carvings and oil paintings older than my childhood home.
And I’ll silently seethe, let the blood bubble out of my tear
ducts, let the red drip onto my brand new tweed jacket,
acknowledge that all my hard work didn’t erase the rosary
I bit into as a child, didn’t turn my seablood blue. I’ll pop
an antidepressant and lament my own birth, West London,
posh voice, no nails, dark alleyways and you? Almost finished
your midday snack, thinking about the gold grandfather clocks
you’ll melt down for dinner.