Jo Diamond
I give names
Nate Blinkerton
to stars
Sally Lighthole
in the sky
Sam Hotspots
when trying
Jack Fire-Eyes
to avoid
Joan Crikey
what I’m thinking
Sergeant Deadflame

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There are mornings
my body feels
like it’s waiting for someone
to scoop me out of the bath
with a fistful of tissue
and nervously throw me
out the window.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I found myself
in the bathroom with the TV remote.
I’m not sure what I was hoping
to fast forward or rewind
but I paused for thought.
I always seem to be
carrying something these days,
be it in my hands, my shoulders
or the fog in my brain
that doesn’t trust either of those.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The sun rose and birds sang
and all those obvious things.
Coffee tables carried on kicking me,
buses still came in giggling twos,
salt and vinegar Pringles didn’t go easy
on the underside of my open mouth,
the uphill cycle to work was steeper, if anything.
I was no closer to knowing the name
of the guy I’d been speaking to for six months,
his tie was still far too short
and he didn’t take a day off
from microwaving his salmon lunch.
When I went to the off license
the man behind the counter gave me a wink
and didn’t even ask about you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Hairy hands making mashed potato
into a dance.
Scissor fingers soften
at the sight of rhythmic wrists,
clenched jaws replaced
with memory foam cheeks.
The golden days of powdered Smash
float under our chins
like secret pork pies beneath the lettuce
at the back of the vegetable crisper.
You fold butter into King Edward
like peace signs across my forearms.
The roughness of your palms
melt my shoulders apart,
my chest is a gravy tub opening –
a tickle of the nose,
a bouncing thumbs up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Written using sentences found by searching for ‘why’ in my WhatsApp search bar.

Why did you do it?
Why am I scared all the time?
Why are you doing circus training?
Why is our son so old and sad?
I don’t know why he hates cuddling us so much.
Why are his balls so big and red?
Why the fuck was I buying a Babybel?
Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?
I wondered why I was crying.
I can now see why you were annoyed with me.
Why wouldn’t you want the experience to last longer?

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Easy-peelers
must hate all the attention.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I bang my head in the loft on Sundays.
Our Christmas decorations live neatly behind me
as I enter the roof hatch for emergency access,
but the rest of the space is organised chaos.
My thumbs are too wide to be trusted
to send emails from a phone.
I have grown to love the dappled snowflakes
of pigmentless skin sprinkled across my arms.
I call my son Buddy.
My shoulders don’t feel strong enough sometimes.
I’m still waiting for my thigh-thick wrists,
roast beef hands and eyes
that both fall asleep mid-conversation
and make people feel heard with one look.
I do call inanimate objects Bastards, though,
when they dare to scratch my skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I woke up in the middle of Dawson’s Creek.
No one knew when the evening would come.
A man coughed until his bus showed up.
I could hear a kettle screaming.
Puddles gathered like gossiping nuns.
I remember everything about that ham sandwich.
Who knew that many people have freckles?
Coffee table dust whispers all day.
Your smile killed a kitten.
I still text you once a year.
I still send you a text once a year.
Once a year I’ll text you before midnight.
I wonder if you know I text you every year.
I don’t know why I bother texting you every year.
I wish I took the time to text you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020