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.