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
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.