After Tania Adoabi
I hear you.
I wouldn’t want them to write about me either.
They would talk about the day you died and how
I hid the news in bottles of Orange Reef.
They would talk about how I should get over you.
They wouldn’t talk about the privilege of having
your smile swim through my pupils every morning.
They wouldn’t talk about my near two-decade
fear of driving nailing me to the passenger seat,
nodding at countless cows and horses.
Countryside sheep are fluffy footballs I picture
slipping through your fingers.
When Kasper Schmeichel looks down a Sky Sports lens
I get to whisper to you that he is Peter’s son and is
loved by his dad as much as you still are.
© Carl Burkitt 2020