I pack up our past in twisted Goodwill bags, dump

them in the basement with broken Christmas lights.

Take stock of useless objects; fists of silverware, slack

folds of bed linen. Bookshelves grieve dusty paperbacks,

absent as our son’s milk teeth. Once you’ve moved out,

an army of ants move in, tiny bodies spill from flaking

baseboards, hoarding breakfast scraps in silent defiance.

For the sake of the children, I will not use chemicals,

attempt a lemon juice attack. With rubber gloves I am

quietly murderous, praying for a citrus victory, committed

to a clean slate. But still they come. Abandoning diplomacy

I relent and purchase traps. Follow the trail to your nest,

crouch behind hydrangeas, my shame lit blue by mocking

streetlamps. Watch you with her; this new woman, shining

like a freshly polished faucet. For the sake of the children

I will not make a scene, mouth hot tin, fingers clasp the bait.

Back home, I keep the lights on, flush out the colony,

sweeping bodies of the dead dried fast in the broom’s teeth.

A mess of blood and crumbs, I ignore it like a bolted door.

Seek shelter when the sirens start

the BBC intones, as I worry

my iron-on patches, watch

childhood evaporate, ice blue

in the late-night news glare.

From the kitchen window

I picture a mushroom cloud

above the local church spire

doorstep milk bottles melting

in the white heat of impact

while Dad props up the bar

at the Red Lion, carpet sticky

from decades of spilled pints

& broken promises. After school

we lie down dead in the street

with crowds demanding peace.

I’m tired of protesting nuclear war

while indifference is on display

in Woolworths’ windows, cut-price

deals for 99p. Rather be home

watching Dynasty, dreaming

of American sunshine, feathered  

blond hair. I feel the acid burn

of Mum’s rebuke, unspeakable things

happen every day, an upturned pram

a toxic river. She’ll hold my hand,

explain Dad’s leaving again. I sit silent

as the sky, waiting for dust to settle.

Wading out beyond the estuary, searching for the spot

we buried our childhood. From the jetty I see sisters

beautiful & misshapen as river rocks. Nudge memories

loose with my tongue, slices of our house just visible

among reeds. An egret squats by the slate wall, bothersome

as a beady-eyed boy. His beak shows me where we dug

for worms, wings bold & foolish as a playground dare.

Polished our foul moods till they sparkled in the pocket

of my navy windbreaker while she hurled curses

at clouds, waiting for the river to prove itself. Mostly

she was mute beneath chestnut bangs I cut too short

while Mum slept off the fizz of vodka tonics. Speaking

for her around adults, I’d whisper advice gleaned from three

extra years of life. Forgive her with stale Custard Creams,

knowing she chose silence to keep the peace. Remember the girls

we were as I lace stiff work shoes, find her fingers in the ooze

when I unload the dishwasher, sense her smirk when I break

a glass, if the pram won’t fold. Crashing through waves

of morning when the baby cries, I wonder if she’s happy,

whether she lines her pockets with pebbles. Half-formed

vowels rumble across my ribcage, secrets surfacing as I dredge

for our remains. What would she say to me now she’s ready?