By Charlie Bowden
Last night I convinced myself
that the reflection of the carpet
in the reasonably large glass door
was snow on the ground
so it would be too cold to dig.
The water that now glugs
along the pipes just once a day
would shower me in memories
of a birthday in December,
which would be far too dangerous.
The world outside would be covered
in a blank bland pastry preventing all
from getting in or leaving, a limbo
of locked doors that never need unlocking
except to feel the weight of openness in your hand.
You hold power in your blistering palm,
so blood-red it becomes eyeball-white,
yellowing with the slowing of the seasons,
no need to leave or lie about who you’re seeing
to the half-shadows of people flying far above your lullaby town.
They are clustered high in the clouds, winged devils prowling for pieces of happiness
just like everyone else, hurtling towards something special like most people
even if they’re unaware of it, but not me alone in this house,
hunted by the domestic carrion of holidaying hurricanes,
whipping up winds collecting things in their carry-ons like crows.
Suppose the world is sloshing about in a massive soup bowl
and we die without the chance to come into contact with another crouton,
floating out, becoming more stale, slowly drowning then falling apart,
suppose I was a telepath, how far out would I have to be
to become completely disconnected from the rest of the pea-soup sea?
I must have hit the limit, reached nobody’s waters, no lifeguards, guarded enough
from everything, good enough to leave well enough alone, they supposed.
It’s getting late. I need to comb my flesh through this place again,
tighten the latches, rustle the rusting keys, make faces at the faces on the fridge,
say goodnight to a British Museum magnet of Tutankhamun, no nose to smell
my fear suspended in thick amorphous soup.
I’ve lost track of when the flight lands, when you might have to act social again.
It’d be their just desserts to find me laden with skeletons, covered in sand,
soup ladle in hand, because I’ve decided the carpet tonight will be desert.
Egypt, that’s where they’re going to embezzle their happiness abroad.
All I have is a metal reminder of their crime
that will dissolve long before I die by the hand of a crouton.
That’s among the many things I’ve convinced myself of.
Charlie Bowden is a student from Hampshire, England, who discovered a love for writing poetry in lockdown after spending years studying it at school. His work has been included in collections by Young Writers, Black Cat Poetry Press, and the Stratford Literary Festival, and he won the 2021 Forward Creative Critics Competition. You can follow him on Twitter and Instagram @charliebpoetry for more.
Hot Pot Magazine 