There have been

seventy six million
nine hundred forty two thousand
three hundred and fifty one poems

about falling asleep
next to someone you love

that was a lie, of course
but by God is it ever wonderful.

Seventy six million
nine hundred forty two thousand
three hundred and fifty two.

The sun travels
in light circles

sometimes
it brings you along

and sometimes
it eats you alive.

Your blank canvas birth
was long enough ago for you to laugh at.

Now look at you,
skin rich with life,

formed and developed,
a moving, articulate photograph

of crystalline lightning
coursing over you like water

blank canvas death
is now impossible.

Steeper hill
and darker valley,
descending to climb
new disaster after another,
ricocheting from high to low
the tunnels whisper you are a fighter
as you’re up for air, grinning with a migraine.

                                    Echoes of the shouts of down
                                           fade as you crest a tidal wave,
                                           and in these weightless moments
                                                        y­ou built a home, a whole life,
                                                           ­   you fell in love over and over
                                                           and carved strength from the iron
                                                             that allowed you down once again.

                                Rational heartbeat of the never-ending
                   keeps your will steel and your eyes hot,
           but when tunnels whisper I see an end  
          it is easier to smile at comforts
      and it is okay to be scared
  on a rickety roller coaster
with an expiration date.

Your grandfather’s cold cup of coffee.

Breeze on your toes from a hole in the door.

Dust and cobwebs on glass Geisha figurines.

A staircase the creaks twice every second step.

Beads.

Mildew and paper holding hands.

Milk crates with records in them, three.

Sinatra and Woody Guthrie.

Lavender.

Dense wooden chests of cloth, linen frayed.

Threadbare towels.

Woodrose pink.

White duster’s gloves.

Floorboards that whisper epics.

Bookcases that smell of mahogany dreams.

Cardamom.

Brown sugar.

A television older than you and your mother.

Playing cards, missing the six of hearts, neatly labelled.

Another cold cup of coffee.

Lace, white.

Winter sunlight and swirling dust.

China in a locked cupboard.

Skeleton key tied to the handle by a faded ribbon.

Paper, folded, an incomplete crossword in blue pen, lazy scrawl.

An armchair, plaid, brown, yellow, comfortable.

Hand-knitted blanket, stained in the top right corner.

Wine glass.

Sleepy.

Quiet.

Take off your shoes.
Wool sweater.

Messy hair. Step forward.
Fill your lungs with cold.

Open your throat. Empty your ears.
Check behind you. Nothing. Shiver.

Check once more. Shiver.
Your spine this time. Pulse.

Goosebumps. Back of your arms.
Raised like hyenas. Cackling.

Toes to the edge. Reflection. Shiver.
Look back, look up, look for land, look for green.

Grey. No clouds. Quivering breath.
Exhale. Watch them leave you. Clouds.

Toes to the edge. Down again.
Shiver.

Shiver.
Grey. Shiver.

Reflection. Shiver.
Stop. Shiver.

Reflection. Shiver.
Listen. Shiver.

Toes to the edge.
The edge. Shiver.

Blink. Ripples.
Toes to the edge.

Exhale.
Reflection.

Ripples.
Shiver.

Fog.
Shiver.

Stop.
Stop.

Stop.
Shiver.

When her slippers don’t make
the sound she knows so well
on the scuffed, yellowed linoleum kitchen.

When the telly tells her
a boy that looks like her grandson
was out breaking windows last night.

When the kettle misses its turn
When there are no car horns
When her boy has not called since Wednesday.

When ice wraps the fading window
When her ears turn the colour of autumn
When she can’t find her glasses on her head.

When weather reporters don’t smile
When Stewart does not come home
When she remembers he will never be home

she worries.