wendy cope wrote 'the orange’ about this
you look at me like maybe i’m magic
and now i’m unafraid of feeling full.
your sitting room– that suntrap of swallowed
nonchalance and breakfast spreads and every
bugbear that comes unstuck the second you
kiss it– where we share the pasts we’ve stomached
and how all it took to unspool was a
serendipitous hand finding the switch.
you gave me back my appetite for joy.
it tastes like percolator coffee and
bootleg beers in the bath and the photos
you take on the days i feel like a ghost.
back then, if someone had sliced me into
segments, they’d have found you. latent, waiting
for me to tip the bowl of spoiled apples
ready for a single. sweet clementine.
28.04.2024
