Salt & Knives

Standing in your lemon kitchen
you are fingerless. If only you
could hold onto the hands that
hang from the ceiling like
lightbulbs you could collect
the honey glow and bottle it
for your paintings. You were faceless
behind that netted mask, a
beekeeper, worn and bitten.
You sent me flowers and your fingers
so there would always be something
to hold onto. You tied string
from one corner of the room to
the floor so that I would find you
when you had no eyes. We met again
by the window to your garden but
you had forgotten how to save
beauty for your art, you were grey,
and you didn’t know my name.

October 2014

What inspired me: This poem has been written and rewritten so many times, and pencilled over and crossed out. It’s not what I wanted but it’s something. It’s sadness in yellow and grey, dipped in salt, and cut up with knives.