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Poetry
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| By alandavidpritchard | ||||||||
| 16 June 2005 | ||||||||
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Was going to call this E=MC squared, but I think this title works better. MEMBERS ONLY I'll tell you what does hurt, says the man with the tattoo on his lips, the man with the safety pin through his eyelid - this, and he shows me a scar where a nipple should have been, points to a picture of a girl, of a weird earring. That's nothing, says the anorexic whose husband left her for someone thinner, whose fridge is full of rotting food, whose certificates from a school of gourmet cooking still cling to the walls - let me show you the mother of a girl whose unborn child is dead inside her, then we'll talk about misery. Well done, says another, that gets me right there - and she coughs, trying to get the fly out of the hole in her throat. It's my turn. I feel incompetent. All I have, I say, is this, holding up a poem about a cat up a tree, about a little boy's tears and the cold hungry wind.
(c) Alan David Pritchard
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