nest
when you crave space:
when you despise them for that jam on your sofa; for pissing in your shoes; for muddling white with pink; for that toilet’s dreadful stink;
when you ache with spite about all you gave
to save your kids distress; when you hate them and the mess they insist’s an effect of your mistakes, your own misguided self, bereft,
and now’s just evidence that how they live’s bequeathed;
when you ask, ‘could you put that flask in that part of the kit your grandpa’s craft made to hold it safe?’ and they prove yesterday’s claim’s got much more to lose than an artefact’s power to move
memory used disproportionately,
and
when you crave space,
watch me – grieve, regret, beget space, and crave still yet know, it’s not space you crave and you, simply, can’t know.
Cherry Coombe 