the madrigal, volume iii.v
by eliza davis
i think of how
when you were tiny
i'd stroke along the fleeting bridge of your nose
swooping down to the indented kiss of your top lip
smooth across the skin as your eyes hung heavy
lids drooping, struggling to stay open
you could miss something important!
while each smudging of my fingertips
soothed them shut
i remember how i’d want to wake you
just as soon as you were slipped away, already
desperate with missing you, the need to check
you were still there, still you, still a living breathing
part of me. apart from me.
i craved those blinking eyes sleepy smiling
right into my heart; the urgent
need for brief respite winning
out each time.
you are an impossible wonder. you are an almighty dickhead.
five years old. my doppelganger, my elite miracle.
i try not to possess you.
katie drops you home, only it's her husband
and i still don't know his name but i forget to care
the second you are jumping out
and hurling yourself into my waiting arms.
who dare believe in the importance of some name above that of
this golden light, full force, flesh and mud and is that yesterday's porridge on your shirt how can i have missed you i was only gone an afternoon, oh
in my arms, in my arms, in my arms. i hold you tighter,
don't think about the inevitable letting go
eliza is a poet, academic, and regular abuser of the rule of three. she writes obsessively, indiscriminately. it's always about love. last year, for christmas, eliza gave her son a scalextric. she refutes the allegations that she bought it for herself. you can find her at elizawrtes.uk