Monica

Monica: A poem

A whole month,
I put off writing about your death.
death.
No dying, just death,
No process.
Tried not to open cupboards with your old books,
handwriting.
your numerous attempts at N level math

Head bent over questions on pi,
did you ever know after a decade,
I'll see your lips ajar,
pale toe peeking under covers
body brought away in a bag,
your discoloured fingers interlaced under glass.

kept me awake
thinking about that Lee Brennan poster behind your door
for years
where my nine year old self
spend irritating you.
and when you felt like it
told me about your boyfriend Angelo,

heaving
while we climbed up to my parent's house
pass wet spit stains on the stairwell


heaving

I clutch the sides of my bed wailing into a pillow.