Your finger bled much more than it should have done
for such a small cut from the smashed bowl
that you’d let slip from your wet hand
whilst taking a drag of the damp cigarette.
We hadn’t seen you for weeks and to throw
our best dish onto the lino
seemed a strange way to say hello.
Much like the fashion magazines that you ripped
apart, and that book of verse that you’d written
describing how your family had destroyed you
and how you mother had killed your father, just.
Just to get back at you, that seemed strange.
Perhaps the cut was much deeper than first thought,
or was it the hot, soapy water
that had got your blood running
or your heart, racing, like each of ours.
David Coldwell, b. 1970, is an artist, writer and public servant based in the South Pennines. David has enjoyed a varied career that has included roles as diverse as video producer, script writer, lecturer, project manager and landscape painter.
David’s poetry has been accepted for publication in a number of journals and anthologies including The Rialto, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Ariadne’s Thread.
David is a regular contributor to Write Out Loud poetry performance nights. He lives in Marsden with his wife and three children.