Poetry

Issue #2

Diurnal Living

I walk through the break of dawn, not day.

I saw the break of day;

It was at the mid of night;

I jeered at you, over my seventh pint

And bade two, three, five o’clock on it’s way.

And now it’s dawn and there’s no one up.

I’ll be alone for hours, as I

Wander through the chilly mist

Of a wakening world, I

Stare at passers-by, these

Peaky, pearly, pink-cheeked people bathed

In streaky peachy grey-marl chill

Of their diurnal living. The sky is white and smeared

With orange fingers, not yet so bright

That I would find my way without streetlights

As I make my late night journey home,

In the early morning.

I wade through clouds of my own breath

Beading my face with a mist of used-up energy. I

Can taste that I’m not going to sleep. My

Teeth are gritty, coated in fermented sugars

With lumps of part-digested noodle

Wedged between my molars. I

Can still taste his mouth and

The furring of his tongue, leaving traces

Of his social smoking

Yellowing on my lips. I trip

To think of how it felt, to

Commit adultery. It’s

A long time since you looked at me

And even drunkenly

Desired me. We

Don’t talk without accusing me, of abuse or neglect or debauchery -

I tighten my coat around me as I flush, bitterly.

The icy fist of guilt blazes from my stomach to my gullet

And I vomit, by the roadside.

I straighten. I’m almost home and

Acidic tears sting my clammy cheeks as they drip

Onto my empty hands.

He still has my handbag,

Which still has my keys,

And so I settle on the doorstep

To await the break of day, not dawn.

Katy Tucker