(this one’s not very good, I’ve just been … blocked … for a while).
If I can push my unbreathing body
into your limp and reluctant hands
you can put your face where my heart
used to beat; while I lay mine at
your feet. If you hold my broken arms
together in a rope’s embrace, I will
keep your bleeding guts warm with my
dying face. And when the ambulance comes,
(if it comes), they’ll unravel
my limbs from your veins, your hands
from my neck, our bones from our
pain, and lay the half that is you
and the half that is me in our separate
graves; but no one knows where you end
and I begin, and no one will know which flesh
is which, or whose grave I’m lying in.
Written because my dear Jess said “you can put your face where my heart was” in reference to something unconnected, and I thought it sounded rather pretty.
For other, less crudely-hewn-from-the-rockface-of-language poetry, why not try Know Your Words (in which I am accompanied by the infinitely more talented Amy Kreines and Al Kennedy), or For The Love of a City: Poems To and About London.