3: Why


A poem for dismantled breakfasts

two ( or were or maybe still are)

to match the wooden chairs that had come with the apartment

They had moved in two Aprils ago.

and there are still cracks

that look like beginnings

begging for forgotten breakfasts.

he eats cornflakes the way she rips split ends from her hair with her teeth

and she knows that there are three cornflakes left in his bowl

and he’s told her three times that he has to leave.

But there are at least three things she would like to say: firstly that she wanted to shower first

and secondly still,

he moves his head away to film-script

while she cries tears for 8 o’clock

they pour

together over table-cloth dissected history

A table cloth that waited for written letters and whisky

and he’s speaking now of greeting card propelled kindness and of all

cosmos inflected reasoning she can hear nothing more than the metal spoon against the bowl

that he lays to balance before he goes

before her cobweb mouth parts

she licks the nothing from her lips and thinks

that there were definitely two times she thought of cutting

up the table cloth

and her words can wait for tomorrow’s breakfast.


This is a poem I have written for an assessed piece of university work- all credit-Beth Longman. 


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