Arthur
Lizzie Huitson
I forget things these days.
I forget how sentences began, I forget to finish
I forget to wear socks.
I forget my middle name for weeks at a time.
A while ago (I don’t remember when)
I forgot what a fork is
and stared at the damn thing, gently questioning
why a spoon would have stripes of metal missing from it.
A while ago (I don’t remember when)
I forgot that you live here
and I glared at your shoes, mulling over
why I would have bought a pair that doesn’t fit
and doesn’t suit me.
I worry I’ll forget tonight –
forget the silver shreds of cloud,
the wind that could knock a fat pigeon from its perch.
Your voice, your unchanged mischief.
I will try to remember that.
The rest is immaterial.
Lizzie Huitson
I forget things these days.
I forget how sentences began, I forget to finish
I forget to wear socks.
I forget my middle name for weeks at a time.
A while ago (I don’t remember when)
I forgot what a fork is
and stared at the damn thing, gently questioning
why a spoon would have stripes of metal missing from it.
A while ago (I don’t remember when)
I forgot that you live here
and I glared at your shoes, mulling over
why I would have bought a pair that doesn’t fit
and doesn’t suit me.
I worry I’ll forget tonight –
forget the silver shreds of cloud,
the wind that could knock a fat pigeon from its perch.
Your voice, your unchanged mischief.
I will try to remember that.
The rest is immaterial.