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

I’ve never wanted to be a human
who is known for one thing.
When I am asked
about things I enjoy or am proud of
I feel a hand tightening around my throat.
I don’t know whose it is
but it looks a little like mine or the man who said
No one remembers the seventh goal in a 12-0 win.
But as I hold my son up to see the microwave,
his wrists spinning like a Labrador’s tail flapping,
I think about dying in a comfy chair
safe in the knowledge he’ll know
the songs, the stories, the flowers, the people
to watch me melt away,
allowing him the freedom to focus on
letting grief turn into moving on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I think about Freddie Flintoff
being told off by his parents.
They call him Andrew.
They tell him to stop staining his white trousers.
They tell him to get his feet off the sofa.
They tell him to read a book if he’s bored.
They tell him he can have fizzy pop
once he’s eaten his vegetables.
They drive him to training the next day,
make sure he has his ham sandwiches
and wonder where he got his shoulders.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Reaching a mint shower gel stuffed palm
towards my left arm pit
I can hear my eulogy being read.
The voice I’m soon to meet
makes a few jokes about wrestling
and how curly hair looks peculiar
when it first starts receding
and how long sleeves never fit me.
It says nice things about my scrambled egg
and the notebooks I thought I’d hidden
and the crowd relax
into Ramble On by Led Zeppelin.

© Carl Burkitt 2021