Antigravity isn’t going to work here
isn’t the month for doubt cracking the skin
like a drought ridden lawn,
but for the fizz of drinks hitting tongues
to wetten memories in a sprinkler burst of excitement.
These are the weeks to watch the sky
offer a picnic just for you, for every flower
to do a ta-da! and release their scent just as you’re walking by,
for every ice-cream to wilt, for every beach
to unveil its secrets, for every tide to let you feel
its Poseidon beard with your toes, for every pier
to let you recapture your youth with rides
twisting like the intestines coming out of your mouth,
for every minute bronzing yourself to the point
of passers-by confusing you with a statue
and seagulls posing for selfies
while the incoming salty air knocks you back
like a sandcastle of paperwork about to collapse.
the occupational therapist said,
lifting my caveman haunch of a leg.
A feast for Henry VIII. Zombie
groupies set to go wild. In this moment,
bubbled away from reality,
everything lifted away from the concrete
monotony of inescapable pain.
The cracked walls of the side room
split, the windows gave way,
and the ceiling lifted up like a doll’s house.
Floating around like a childhood astronaut
removed me from the gravity of adulthood
and everything that tethered me.
I never noticed the dark matter
in the cracks or the black hole growing
like an undetected tumour.