of where he used to be
© Melina Magdalena 2009
He
is breaking himself out
of the habit of having a mother
wants
no part of Kilburn
with its seething streets of neglect
its hungry, disaffected youth
and paths that glisten with broken glass
(although we
are better off than we have ever been before
in the short history of his life)
doesn’t come home
to our little house of colours
where his mother’s lover shouted at him once
in exasperation
at his abject refusal to be part of
what we’re trying to create here
precious boy
as if no one had ever shouted at him before
as if his own mother didn’t sometimes get angry with him, too
as if he had never shouted or even sworn at anyone
his whole life long
allows himself
no luxury of comfort
no occasional home-cooked meal
no night in the room he decorated, just to his taste
curt
on the phone as though split in halves by the wires that connect us
always rude all right now goodbye he says
and don’t fuckin’ text me ever again
loathes
me actively
with every fibre of his being
straining to get further away from me
at chance meetings when he’s visiting his grandparents
or ferrying his sister from place to place
What kind of withdrawal symptoms must he suffer?
All I sense is the negative space
of where he used to be.
