There’s sunshine with blueberries each morning I sing
fortissimo most evenings while we cook This is a poem
about joy It’s not neat My ex-husband had a rare condition
that made him feel fire ants were biting his face
eyebrows first then the rest of his body
It flared up many times each day The only way
to calm it was to wash He had bottles of water
in the car for this purpose He was convinced
that objects were cursed because when he touched them
the itching started up He wrapped these things
in plastic bags phone wallet documents I helped him
to hide the problem from clients Our house
was a Turkish bath steamed up from all the soaking
of skin clothing backpacks cameras
I tried to be kind but sometimes wasn’t Paper and fabric
were breeding grounds for fire ants My books were all cursed
We couldn’t hunt for second-hand gems
or browse antiques My coats were a problem
Worst was my black Ted Baker one thick wool
belted bat-wing sleeves
That fucking coat It’s in my new wardrobe five years
since he walked out —1 am— but still it seems
polluted Near the end everything I owned
was infected I couldn’t touch him and if I did
in error he’d flinch as though a toxin
had brushed against him get up with a spittled
I swear to GOD and spin to the sink
He’d splash his face because my hand
touched his He told me three times in nine years
that he loved me I had to ask He wouldn’t go
to the doctor because when he did once try
in LA the doctor thought it only dry skin He was
sensitive to smells He’d cover his mouth and nose
when he was next to me It snowballed over years
so that secretly —we were so good in public—
flopped on the sofa I came to see myself
as a sort of slug It was important
to pretend to be confident There’s not enough here
about blueberries And did he ever once or twice
hit me? Throw things? Bruise? I forgive it
or try to He wasn’t sinister not like
that other man the one who tried to rape me in a high room
an office I’d thought not an apartment
I’d been looking for work
when it happened He threw me rag doll down
and was unshiftable on top of me A cannonball
on my pelvic mound I’ve never been so aware
of that bone I couldn’t kick or twist Por favor
didn’t work I thought he’d strangle me saw
what a murder victim sees I was a gnat
in his web I sometimes think I’m still
as dispensable I don’t know why
he allowed me to run to that Catalan
backstreet sun pulsing clammy
and spinning I still had the nous
to note his address —33 San Vincenz— but felt
stupid Estupido I looked up the translation
in the back of the police car I thought
that the word would help He wasn’t in the first
photo ID line-up but was in the second
Ecuadorian square faced I took the Metro
to the far side of the city both times and again to meet
his lawyer The police had little English My Spanish
was poor but I was trying His lawyer asked me
how I ran from his apartment Was the door unlocked?
And I knew that what she meant is “Was I free to leave whenever
I chose?” Yes she was a woman his defense
I was free not locked beneath him not pinned
to the sofa bone on bone Our bodies aren’t legally
double bolts I left when I chose to left behind
his deep eyes grizzly hair Would I still
pick him out from a line-up? There were photos of his wedding
on the mantelpiece He had a toddler in a pram
a little girl and wheeled her to a bedroom
She didn’t cry but must have listened I think
I was lucky Sometimes I catch myself wondering
where he is now if we’ll meet This is not
about my ex-husband his itching It’s about
separate hurts balling together a handful
of snowflakes that tumbled down a wintry hill
and after that another hill another until they were
a monstrous boulder encrusted with clods
and rocks blackened besmirched I came
to see myself as a slug I wouldn’t lean in
to whisper with friends in case my breath was rank
He said it was No one has agreed Still
this is miles from blueberries I sing scherzando
unchained when I cook with my partner We laugh
at terrible wordplay Nerdplay Our life
is truer than this poem but I’m trying Like most families
mine has tales of fierce women who suffered
but had to get on with it and kind tender men People
who coped and can’t tell me how They must
have sung gossiped mucked in There are many
ghosts in this poem I’m one of them As I write
there’s a dunnock on the bird feeder It’s been flying
back and forth from the hedge I wonder how they manage
little birds like that with sickness Life’s cheap
A gnat in the web Pointlessly
living each second in joy The sun falls creamy
on the table at breakfast Milk splashes up the sides
of my bowl I think we should sing fortissimo
even if it’s complicated Lately
everyone’s been taking a stand This poem
has given me nightmares The room smells of coffee
cinnamon blueberries two and a half scoops.

poetry-magazineSnowballing

Snowballing