Jess Mookherjee Issue 68
You're slow like Northumberland this November,
the world is behind your eyes, you keep tapping
your bald patch until I notice. You make us eggs,
take me to your woods where you feel safe.
Last November, when you stayed, you made tea,
splashed whisky in a cup and told me the things
you'd been running from had caught you; you showed me
your paintings of dead crows. So long ago;
after the split, we sat over cider at the World's End.
I tried not to ask questions about him. You said nothing
about us being one broken mirror. I wondered if I would
see you again. In a past life, you scurried ahead of me,
watchful as a hare, your job, to protect me
from myself, letting me look at sky, rain and the light
on railings while you marched like a Roman soldier,
down Caledonian Road. In that North London flat,
we smoked with edgy friends, you swore you didn't
fancy him, said he wasn't your type, you swept
your hand through your thick black hair but I watched
you both laugh and play your guitars to Pink Floyd.
In the beginning, your North East handsome
phone voice said I'm lush, I say, great, come and live
and play with us, when we meet I fall in love with
your weird art-school moustache; and we begin a dance.
Jessica Mookherjee is author of Swell (Telltale Press), Joyride (Black Light Engine Room), and Flood (Cultured Llama). In 2017, she was highly commended in the Forward Prize for best single poem.