Her face has not been behind my eyes in what feels like years
but this time she appears
in a dream, and all I can really
remember is sobbing
into my pillow, coughing on
what it felt like
to be eight years
young and asleep in her too-cushy beds.
And the smell of her dark-salmon apartment,
friendly old ladies and two gentlemen
living up the halls, and
Sue with her cigarette trail
popping by for tea under sunny summer skies.
I remember the hunched marzipan smiles,
and the Radio Times between the lines
on her cheeks as she chuckled
at some silly joke and whacked him with a spoon
– or so it goes.
I am passive still, in this return, as it washes over my slumber.
Scrabble tiles rattling out of a bag, something nice.
I let the lacey clouds and glass bobbins, in their hundreds, and
the feelings of love, countless, I have clearly kept
in my sleep to break me come the morning.