Time passes but my hand
reaches out to twirl
the wedding ring I used to wear;
as if it’s still there.
Its twin is lost at sea,
where the waves lapped
and that fish leapt once.
Anyway, you can sell it –
Three grams of eighteen carat
scrap gold, heavier than the soul;
if you believe the metaphysician
who measured it leaving
a dying man’s bed:
If it helps you live, husband.
I nearly walked past you smoking a skinny roll up
waiting for me in the rain outside Sue Ryder
god but you’re looking gaunt and unhappy
mumbling through your down-turned mouth,
devoured by debt losses and insomnia
but you say you’re going to be OK and
you’re helping your friends who are in a band
And all I want now is to see you like you were before
walking with a swagger and that punk badass snarl,
with a pay packet in your pocket and some gear
on your way to see a girl at the gig
and everyone on the door knows who you are:
The whole world ahead of you,
and it can go fuck itself somewhere.
There are cut daffodils left on the path
like lost gloves, laced with the lingering scent
of balled tissues, kidskin and lozenges.
When Margorie died, her bronze carriage clock
Graced the charity shop window;
surrounded by her orphaned porcelain dolls.
She’d wanted to die at home with her things,
but she passed away in a ward somewhere.
It’s possible a nurse held her hand,
even if the old lady despised them.
They paved over all her proud flowers –
The Raspberry canes leaning into the bins;
And the Spanish Bluebells, tuberous bulbs
she’d failed to rout with rancour each year:
the Council cleaned up what wasn’t landfill,
and sold the property to foot the bill.
Katerina lives in the North West of England, where she home educates her daughter. Her poems have appeared in several poetry publications, most recently Obsessed With Pipework.