Poetry

Stories

Your hair is always

shorter than I imagine, neater.

We tell the stories of our weeks.

I never told you though,

about the three eggshells

I kept in their box

the trampoline spring breaking

the half shaven man

screaming foam in the bathroom

nor the walk around Tesco

silent by the check-out

her eyes like frozen peas

spilled open on the bedroom floor.

Perhaps you wouldn’t mind.

perhaps you’d hold the banister rail;

let it wash over you, like winter.

Beth Davyson