I slid off the paper towel and vowed,
reminded of the time I
let you, like this speculum,
open me up.
spent so long deciding that I
was already empty-full of you.
living flesh cold hard plastic flesh
yes no lukewarm flesh
sitting down after, I felt
the mark of you
like a graze,
but no kindly nurse
would fix it for me.
reminded of how I
waited to be handed the sweet lollipop reward
(jelly tots after my first vaccination);
I always knew how to sit in silence,
staring firmly at coloured paper displays.
I forgot to pull back down my skirt,
fixed, exposed, to the bed.
Did you find it? I asked.
I felt autumn and you weren’t in it,
saw windows burn to black rectangles,
waited up to hear the heating click off,
forgave the leaves for falling.
I am sorry for loving you,
every door knock was a calling,
every threshold step a peace offering –
I forgave you at every arrival.
Had you blown in with the leaves,
I would have forgiven us again and again.
Eleanor Scorah is a writer exploring the recurring imagery in everyday experiences. Her work appears in Strix and Palm-Sized Press, and she won first prize in the Poetry Kit Winter Competition 2019. She was a member of the NewBridge Project’s Collective Studio, co-runs poetry gatherings at Poetry Fuddle, and shares her curiosity about ordinary things on the blog, Object. You can find her on Twitter @eleanorscorah and on Instagram @poetryfuddle.