Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke

When this is over,
we will stand at either end of the garden.
You will look at me,
head tilted,
inquisitive,
wondering if things are the same
between us.

They won’t be.
But we can pretend.
I will open my arms and
stride towards you,
avoiding the dip to the left of the rose bush
that may, or may not, be a sinkhole.

“You can count on one hand
the number of times we’ll be like this again.
Together. “
The weight of your hope makes my arms ache.

When this is over,
I will stand at the end of the garden,
and stare at the spot
where you should be.

There is science in our song,
Song in our science.

There are no dischords;
Lust majors the minors.
Semi-breve to semi-brief;
Our score is etched in time.
No songs are banned between you and me.

Watch our test-tubed emotion react.
You are the alkaline to my acid;
Neutralise me.
Our petri-cells multiply into mitosis melody;
We harmonise to synergise.

You play me with the hands of a maestro;
Cantabile kisses, cappricio caresses,
But our musicality harks of unknown minor keys.
Your deceptive cadence clashes with
My damaged dissonance.

But there is science in our song,
Song in our science.
Your bassline reverberates through me.
Strum my scar tissue-strings,
Hear me sing.

“But you don’t have any bread,”
she said.
[Brow furrowed in genuine concern]

“I do.”
(I didn’t)
[Reassuring smile]

“But is it the crusty type?”
[Clutching a tissue tightly]

“Of course, Grandma. Crusty. Just how you like it.”
[My hand on top of hers]

“That’s good,”
she said.
[A flicker of relief]

I kissed her cheek, damp with tears.

We both knew this would be the last time.

I walked away.

My heart breaking over unbroken bread.

I wrote this on behalf of my Mother, to express the love and loss she feels at losing my Grandma. I was honored to have been asked to write it, and even more honored to read it at her funeral.  

My heart breaks as you take your journey,
It seems too soon to say goodbye,
But the angels have called you home now,
Letting go is hard, even though I try.

But I will find strength in your memory,
That of courage, integrity and pride,
And I’ll face the days ahead of me
Knowing you’re still here, right by my side.

You were a true lady, with a soul so kind,
You could never be replaced,
You’ve inspired me to live my life,
With humility, dignity and grace.

Our bond was stronger than words can explain,
My love for you beyond measure,
Every moment of the life we shared,
Are memories I’ll always treasure.

I still hear your laughter, I still feel your touch,
And that now that we’re apart,
I’ll keep your spirit close to me,
Locked safely in my heart.

I’ll always be your songbird,
And until we meet again,
I’ll sing your memory loud and proud,
My beautiful mother and my best friend.

When I come, we’ll walk hand in hand,
There’ll be many new stories to tell,
Remember, this isn’t as final as goodbye,
This is just a fond farewell.

In the silence, our words form from dust
and lint, curled into clouds under the sofa.
A shuffling foot edges the rug into shadow,
unsettling the threads of all that is unsaid.
Tip-tap-tapping fingers
are the metronome of my frustration.

It’s easier to stare at the wall than at your face.
The way the blind’s cord dangles limply is really
rather beautiful.
I see you changed the ceiling bulb, second from the right.
Somehow light seems brighter when studied in silence.

I could ask if you want a cup of tea.
But I don’t.
I clank your favourite cup as I take it from the shelf.
Its echo seems too loud in this light.
I pour earl grey for one.

They told me to do it.
Asterisked persuasion detailed methods
Of bracketed bullets and bolded blades.

“You should shift across,” they said.

Underscored discussion
Kicked the stool from under
My resolve.

“We’ll help you,” they said.

Wireless friends in
Caps-locked debate
Backspaced my wired escape plans

 “Alt & delete your copy & pasted life,” they said

Cursor flick-knifed blur
Bled staccato scarlet
Across my blue-tooth tales.

Noxious advice screenshots my shutdown.

I never told you that I loved you.
I just said that I might.
And I think I do.
Mostly.

Apart from that thing that you do.

You know.

That thing.

With the eyes.

The Dali eyes that melt time over place,
So I’m lost between both.
Or those Escher eyes that stop me going up.
Or down.

So I just stay.

But then the Warhol eyes scream colour at me.
Margritte eyes smother me.
Picasso eyes carve me to pieces.

And I’m scared.

To stay.

To go.

Bring back my Monet eyes,
My Rembrandt, Degas and Renoir eyes.
And then I might say
That I do.

I’d backspace my worry lines,
Tippex my flaws,
Vellum-finish my past to let the future shine through.

My square-bracketed cheekbones,
Would be sharp and strong –
Framing my portrait with inked purpose.

I’d savour the luscious curves of my Ms,
Calligraphed over blue, semi-colon eyes,
Punctuating all that is and will be…

My lips would be full of letters,
(Of the love variety),
Pouting in Pantone 186, whispering in lorem ipsum.

Jack Ketch’s footsteps
Echo on the black wall.
I’m doubled; constrictor-ties choke.
I gasp to breathe your air.

My dogshank eyes
Fill with your tears;
But my beautiful, butterfly bends
Won’t unravel.

My Gordian lover;
Entwined and entangled;
Plaited with hope;
Knotted with blood.

Hitch your hook to my noose.

Hang me your way.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Blazing and brazen;
Watch my wings unfurl.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Fire-flicked and fury-licked;
Taste my flames.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Scorched and scarred;
Lay on my ember bed.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Furnace-fierce, internal-inferno;
I’ll burn right through you.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Molten-malice, combusting-kisses
Melt you in to me.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Searing and soaring;
Turning to ash.

At dawn, I am flightless…
Lifeless…
Tar and feather me.

Help me fly.