Zoë Green

I Hang my Tissues on the Trees inside my Head

I tuck them away like Mum tucked tissues
up her sleeve; tucked plasters into purses,
gloves into gloveboxes, spades into boots,
in case we got stuck in a drift:

1. Fitzgerald’s is a cheap place to stay
when you need it.
2. There exists a spare key stashed in a pocket
in my handbag should he lock me out.
3. Money in a bank account, that bears
my maiden name.
4. Records of each payment towards
the mortgage.

It’s a little wood where I hang them:
a Christmas wood of spruce, of hope.
All the little notes look like snow.

I also put down some of the things he says
so I know I am not mad when everything
seems rose gold in the dawn of day.
He says I keep count, that
he feels watched.

Zoë Green is a Scottish poet who lives and works in Vienna and Berlin. Her poems have been published in Poetry Review Salzburg, The London Magazine, Atrium, and Ink Sweat and Tears.