Left Overs Day 7

Left Overs.

Her lover’s scent she kept in mind, carried

to a place it cannot dissipate.

A friend hauled off his anecdotes

half recalled, to the pub to tell again.

Some, with polite smiles, remembered his fears.

Those days began his immortality

or the best that can be done until

with luck, when the anniversary arrives

he’s stripped back beyond the bone

where words result in tales, in love, not tears.

All then who hold a glass will know, he’s not gone

but taken another circle round the sun.

How do we see him? How long will he survive?

A firestorm, a flame, a flint. Forever.

Day Seven: Shaun

To a lover.

Making a move in the supermarket aisle, 

I brought you home. Took the risk 

and noone saw us anyway so we're okay. 

This email comes from me at work-

I wish I was still there with you, 

with your sweet taste, I cannot wait.

I cannot wait. 

I've thought of nothing for three days

but your tight suit- I cup and squeeze an empty hand

in the absence of you here. Are you still there, 

where I last felt you- perching on the kitchen side

-I'm home tomorrow and will eat. 

Will liberate you from that glistening green 

get up you wear with my bare hands.

 

Fingers peeling at the smoothened creases of your skin

will delve down deep in giving flesh to pluck and feel

your seed, swollen within your sticky midst

you're ripe for me my dear, I know.

My avacado, I can't wait.

Day 7: Lara

Cereal

She’d always remove the free toys from the Coco Pops and Frosties.

Said it would prevent arguments. That they’d be collectables in the future –

if they were left unopened and kept safe.

When we sorted through her possessions years later, we found them

crammed inside two shoe boxes – the plastic wrappers still sealed,

until we pulled them open, returned to our childhood

and were thankful she’d taken them away.

Day 7: Ashley

Anniversary

Flowers from a garage forecourt

Inferior to flowers from Interflora,

from High Street shops

that seal them airtight in cellophane.

Flowers from a garage forecourt

their bouquet masked

beneath a leaded hint of diesel.

Flowers from a garage forecourt

their heads hanging in shame

as though they know themselves to be

ungivable and unforgivable.

Flowers from a garage forecourt

Proving I hadn't remembered,

or I hadn't forgotten,

confusing us with the difference

and making me wonder

if there'll be another anniversary.

Ashley Lister