For S.
You tell me that she was a breech-birth. I’d
always thought that was worse
but
you say
it was easier that way;
didn’t hurt
as much as the first time,
when your Son was born.
She is two & a half years old.
She’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,
& I used to fucking detest
the word “adorable”,
especially
if it was ever used
to describe me.
When I tell you this, it makes you laugh:
“You’re not adorable!
Sweet,
maybe,
but only sometimes, & sweet like
liquorice: a weird,
acquired taste”.
We’ve stayed awake far too late tonight,
drinking red wine
& talking
about our lives.
I once believed we were defined entirely by
the roles we play in a stupid fucking game,
& that neither the rules
nor the roles could
ever change but
when you leave me,
briefly,
to check on the children,
I realise
that I was wrong:
You’ve changed me completely:
I don’t believe
that this is a game any more;
now,
I see it as a dream
waiting
to be realised.