When he died we flew kites
in the wind. We didn’t, but
that was the feeling. Instead,
we stood on the sand and waited.

We waited for tides to change.
Currents gathered, as did blame.
Tears and raindrops fell. Windswept
Bantham in September wept.

As the strong swells retreated,
corpses of bottles – maltreated.
Uprooted and forcefully
sculpted. Glass misshaped cruelly.

From evenings of love here;
fire, green glass bottles of beer.
Or anger and resentment,
drinking through abandonment.

Now smooth chips of feelings:
light green or white shining.
Like shells of life’s remedies
and dead men’s memories.

When he died we flew kites.

If I am to die before you, I must
Tell you of where I will be.
I will be nowhere and everywhere you
see, beautifully simultaneously.

You don’t have to understand it; I don’t.
Just know that I don’t exist - but
in minds, fixed on family films,
And poetry; there, you’ll find me again.

It smelled of dew
when he held me down
and unbuckled my belt.
I saw the moon when
he pressed my chest
into the ground.
When he whispered 'please'
I didn't hear melodies.
I didn't hear anything
but breathing; silence.
I tasted absinthe.
Anything but breathing. Silence?
I didn't hear.
I didn't hear.
Melodies, when he whispered
'please' into the ground.
He pressed my chest when
I saw the moon, and
unbuckled my belt when
he held me down.
It smelled of dew.