His eyes were chopping boards and trivets,
the wheels on an out of stock drinks trolley,
the miniature holes on a novelty cheese grater,
over cooked meatballs, melted Dime Bars,
the fading Two Metres
on blue and yellow floor stickers.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

is to fall
into a dinner lady
with a grazed knee
and a battered sausage.
It is drowning in aftershave
and garlic in molars.
To think of hugs
is to stick to the stomach of a man
who enjoyed your attempted volley,
to say How are you?
to say Thanks for asking,
to feel fingertips on ribs
unsure if they’re going to break.
To think of hugs
is to remember and restart.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

What are you like in the evening?
Are you a morning person?
I’m getting worse at small talk.
I have zero opinions.
I watch the soft spot on my son’s head
vibrating like the heart of a kitten
punching against ribs.
He has the eyes of a man
who could pick up the phone
and discuss the day’s news with ease.
I had a dream last night:
I walked him to school
and his tongue fell off.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I sat in front of the window
and melted through the glass
and through the green bush outside
and over the road and up the tree
that has just enough leaves to feel alive
and beyond the electrical cables
attached to petrified wooden masts
eager to please the people in the houses
I could no longer see in the clouds
I was passing by to slip through the lip of space
to search for the planet you came from.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The puddle was my mouth
waiting for miniature wellies
to wake my teeth up.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and watch the man in the black tracksuit
stand up from the pub garden picnic bench
with a jump in his Air Jordan’s
and give a thumbs up to the couple
on the table next to him chatting about figs
and smile at the woman in the blue Fiesta
who lets him cross the road
to turn right at the Pharmacy
and pretend to limbo into the Co-op
as the automatic doors open
to a cheer from the shopkeeper
who already has his white bloomer prepared
to take home to no one to make a ham sandwich
and text a mate to find out how he’s doing.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I was reading a newspaper and you
were increased mortgage rates,
the closure of schools,
an escaped gorilla,
a gradually packed stadium,
an incomplete crossword,
a brand new ITV drama,
an experimental flavour of crisp,
a bright forecast.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

My son is printed on a coaster.
His face stops stains settling.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

a new study says.
The pigs couldn’t care less
when we stood
staring at them in the rain
while your cousin made chicken noises
and you sucked on a carrot rice cake
and your other cousin chased alpacas
and a duck had a bath
and a rusty wheelbarrow sprouted daisies
and the torn muscle in my leg
forgot it was on fire.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I don’t want to die
on a hill.
I want my body
to remember it is water
and lose itself
in undiscovered corners.

© Carl Burkitt 2021