Opening the Suitcase

The scarf that you gave
me smells of the Christmas fire
we lit in your house.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

Origami

There
are
jigsaws
of you all
through the house. We fold
them up like newspapers. We fold.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

Breath

I walk through the door
and the curtain comes down,
good mornings splash the walls.

I have four identical conversations
along the corridor with people

who would rather not know
(if they really thought about it)
the finer points of my weekend.

I heave a breath to last me
through the day

and banish myself to a
quiet corner of my brain
to sharpen pencils for the evening.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

We were Talking about the Gas Bill

It was the fingers
snuffling through her hair
like fat noses
that silenced us.

Sprawled across
the first two seats
of a double-decker bus,

they whispered
something syrupy
in cigarette stung voices.

I tried to pluck their words like feathers;

you folded yourself
into the dusty space
between the cushion
and the window

and we fastened our hands together like seat belts.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

Watching Layers Form

We watch New Year cut through the ribbon from the sofa.
The clock above the mantle piece heaves the weight of Last Year like

a

ball

and

chain.

Your watch is a minute ahead, you say
as you try to stare out time, gripping each second
in case the year bolts past so fast you never get to see its face.

I notice for the first time the shape of the hands,
how fragile they look,

how used,

how tired.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

Cabinet

I’m ashamed of the bathroom cabinet,
the way it has no doors,

the way, when you sit on the toilet,
you can see the sawdust of our life:

a packet of lemsip;

an orange disposable razor;

two half used boxes of paracetamol

and all the soap that
we were given for Christmas

that we will never use.

© Jenny Adamthwaite

Platform

Waiting for the train:
characters stepping down from
a thousand stories.

© Jenny Adamthwaite