You would not recognize us if you saw
us now, a year along and tattered, worn
down by survivor’s tasks, bereaved and cold.
You were the thread that sutured us. You were
the flaxen chain that bound us, each bright link
now sundered, planets once in your orbit
cast out, careering in the void. You once
sat at our hearth, refulgent. Now I pull
bright golden hair from the upholstery
as we contest its ownership. This is
the fate of all loves: casting lots to fix
the destiny of joint possessions, things
once wholly yours. A year on, we discuss
which one of us should keep them when I go.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Poetry
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