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This weekend

Rebecca White


When I wake in the morning
the pieces that I remember best
are your face and your hands.

At night I can hear one
and feel the others on my back
but in the morning

you are herma. There are
no arms or legs and you roll
and roll cold stone.

I get in sticky drunk
feet wet on bathroom tiles
eat half a tuna sandwich

and climb back into bed
after another evening
of missing you enough

to wonder if I could ease
back the scars knitting my wrists
and crawl inside to hide in my own arms.

The next day I stare
with black eyes
eyes wet left.

Other faces
are pooling
and I hear them

discuss plans. I have
no plans
so I punch my head through glass.

The air on the other side
is blacker than my eyes
and it sticks to my skin.

I am drenching
and dripped
and swollen with the realisation that

I have found you at the back
not where I left you
closer than I thought.

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