Erasure

The image of you in my head
is fraying,
tailing into anemone fire.
Your crisp lines jittered like
sutures on a skull.

Never just one burial ground.
The rot happens
in that Manchester grave
and the head.

First
there is this Picassion mutation,
a steady morph
then acid baths,
and I’m left with:

Objects – colouring books,
foot operated
ash tray, pocket knife.

Details – a comfy femur –
my throne,
your elbow bend
on the arm of the chair
I could express
mathematically with triangles
and degrees on squared
note paper.

Sense memory –
voice that soothes my mother,
voice –
god of my god,
smell of stew.

Bigger things –
warmth and awe,
cloudish serenity.

And I wish it hadn’t taken
so long to admit,
but it’s okay.

You dismantle,

patch after patch, blacked out
over time
in the primordial alluvium
of thought,

and I’m left with
the raw materials;

the sweet erasure
poem of your soul.

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