Advice to a Poet who wishes to diminish an ex-lover’s name
for Dean
Take up an imaginary quill with a split nib.
Dip it into a lachrymal well filled with blue ink.
Rip a single page from a cherished notebook.
Draw each letter of the name in the manner
of a Medieval monk, embellish the ups and downs.
Fold the page in half, corner to opposite corner,
and half again into smaller and smaller triangles
until you have a wedge that fits your palm.
Wrap yourself in a winter coat for it will be cold.
Place the wedge in the pocket and walk to woods.
Follow a trail that is difficult to tread; the stones,
the brambles, the incline, to the heart of a clearing
deep inside the canopy of aromatic spruce.
Make sure you have lost the folded page en route.
Turn three times, as usual in this kind of dream,
and stroll in a new direction to a volcanic atoll.
Discard your winter coat and dig your toes in sand.
Feel the raw edge of waves glisten over your feet.
Find a cabaña that serves rum in Iittala tumblers.
Quench your thirst, bask as a lobster in new armour.
Know the forest will drape the name in needles,
that rain will bleed the ink into the earth.
Did I mention to use delible ink?
By now it was clear to everyone he was badly upset
A month after he’s overgrown a beard, uneven trim.
The barber’s chair has not troubled his rump.
Never one for water-cooler pontification, he’s silent,
sits at his desk, answers phone calls promptly,
brevity of sentence has become his usual response.
He doesn’t join in with fantasy football anymore,
or queue for Friday morning bacon butties, he looks
thinner, chiselled where once there were love handles.
He’s absent for birthday drinks and work milestones.
HR is called when Mary finds him crouched,
looking like his face is sweating or wet, dusty
with archive files tossed on the floor, thinking he’d
found a place to let go in the hours between being
alone in that house. He isn’t seen for a week.
The house is tidy in a half-done sort of way.
No clutter, and dishes washed but not thoroughly,
the laundry thrown in the washing machine
all in one bundle and on the one setting, too hot
for his jumpers, they’ve shrunk and bobbled,
he’s not bothered to replace them through summer.
We talk about taking him out of himself, attempts
fail and forcing him seems unnecessarily harsh.
In his own time, let him respond in his own time,
but he seems more automaton and monotone
as the weeks drag on. We leave him unpestered
and hope a friend or family member will help,
but we’re not sure he has anyone to fill that role.
It starts with him saying good morning to Mary,
a new navy jumper as the autumn kicks in, before
they switch on the office heating, when Sales start
moaning about the cold mornings. He’s still quiet
but something has shifted, then the beard is shifted,
his tone of voice lifts from dour to genial on calls.
He takes a holiday, a yoga retreat. We chat about
the tan, the haircut and his left hand empty of gold.
Flight of the dragonfly 