Published September 15th, 2024
by Sam Irvine
If I could peel apart the universe like a blood orange
I'd find the segment of time that you were happy
Look for 1984 in the rind or the pulse
You'd be in the same lecture hall as me, similar shoes and shyness
We'd read French books on Romanticism, opt for Austen over Byron
If I could squeeze out the pips to purify your soul
I'd tell you the secrets of the man you married
I'd make you see that he was the world's worst magician
Causing misery with his sordid bag of tricks
That his ales were never yours to fix, never mind kiss
I'd tell you, with juice running down my wrists
That his nature took a twist
Baby face hardened by smoke; icing smeared on tiled kitchen floor
15 birthday candles burning as he strums the wrong chords alone
Quietly growing a monster inside a motherless home
I'd savour the skin, gather the strips, and tell you it wasn't meant to be like this
You could run from his dampening lips, flee the world you fought so hard to resist
You could take up painting, move to France, live a life of bliss
You'd never have to meet him, and I'd never have to exist
About the Poet
Sam Irvine resides in Glasgow, Scotland.
Read the poet's biography on Sam Irvine's Artist Page.
This poem is included in Poetry World #10,
published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in Edinburgh Poetry Magazine:
Connections
by Karen Mackenzie-Hamilton
Edinburgh Poetry Magazine is part of the Wax Poetry and Art Network.
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