'Mostly water', a new poem by Bonny Cassidy
In winter the garden
like the back of our mind
a faint young sun.
By dawn the house
has forgotten much of it.
___
Last night I caught you
reading strands from the plughole
pointing to the shrunken stranger
crackling in the tumble-dry.
I thought of my grandmother pointing
proudly over her daughter’s shoulder
to the photograph of her daughter.
___
The rain rises fast.
I’m wondering what my young girl’s doing
now, and what if
she were faintly real.
I’ve made you aware
you’ll never know.
___
When you quiz the electronic mind
she doesn’t listen –
and as you sleep
I break her up
into neat little sticks.
Let them lie.
___
You wake
our hydrogen bonds.
I’m mostly water
as you know.
You’re saying how warm you feel
trying to scrape off my sweater
like an energetic young son.
___
The rain hovers
removes its feet.