Split

this isn’t it

- the taunting texts -

the hex -

the damage still to do -

the chilling emails - hideously composed

the sightings in the wharf Waitrose -

at South Quay DLR -

the close parked car

in her gaunt world she finds

all signage slips

all language dips

into a murky tense

where nothing can make sense

‘ he tells it right - I am to blame’ -

he’s gone - maybe - but needs to maim

before he melts away - reforms

to do the same again?

so hard - too soon -

to try

to anchor where the grace is -

to read a head fuck

from a thousand paces

Liz Callingham

Hear the poem