1.
I had had
(a few too many) [a good night’s sleep],
And so, when the heavy morning light, which filtered
Like a sweet, blonde roast drip through the
Paper tutu
Of curtain bit me vampirically,
(I could hardly find my head. A pervading)
[I met the day without the usual cloistering]
2.
Dread-sense. I have never counted blessings.
They have felt, even before the accident,
A rug waiting to pull. A beautiful rug
Sometimes.
And with wonderous, tall rings of pile apt
To sink weary feet into. But all’s the more
Reason not to—
(Trust the gifts that land in our paths).
3.
[—maybe now is the time to let it go?]
(My shoes are not where I left them)
It takes me [no time to find both glossy heels].
Two circuits of my cramped studio,
(To find what was hastily kicked off).
My ire, the predictable cost of
[A sleep so deep it sets]
(Just one more Mojito).
4.
Fire in my calves. I ease into red pleather,
(Buried under hills of skirt and pea coat).
My limp is (Much better) [unbearable]
Today. I blame the [early night] (alcohol) for
[Tightening] (loosening)
Tender, damaged muscles which
Will plague me
Until new pills are discovered.
5.
I think of him again. The way he walked
Out when I could not.
(It still hurts) [this ache fades]
Though my train does not care.
(I am late) [I am late] again.
[I can’t afford] (I can’t afford) to
Keep (fucking up) [screwing up]
Like this.
6.
My [limp] (racing mind)
Threatens to slow me, but
I know this journey well.
(I power walk) [take a shortcut],
But nothing ever seems to
Be enough.
I lean against the wall and
[Massage the deep-raked] scars from
Days gone, moments I can only replay
With a detached analytic.
7.
(Curiosity pull me back into a whirlwind
Of awful thoughts, which) hurt.
I call in [sick], (to tell my boss that)
My (fucking) train [doesn’t care that it]
Will be pulling
Into the station
Without me, and honestly,
One way or the other,
(He’s going to have to learn live with that).
[I think I can learn to live with that].
Kurt Van Ristell (he/him) is a poet, author, and artist living in South London. He works in education, in Lambeth, which is a storyteller’s boon. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Bandit Fiction, Sledgehammer Lit, Horned Things and PostScript Magazine.
Find me on twitter @secretvan