The Four Seasons as Husband
by Matt Haigh
Love, this teary perfume I excrete makes me sorry
for the sentiments we’ve not expressed, so sorry
for words stockpiled in our chests, like the sorry
nuts which are the squirrel’s hoard. I’m sorry
too for those we’ve said aloud. Sorry
to see them grow in sorrowful
daffodil piles here. Sorry
for these invading shoots
splitting the parquet.
Love, I’m sorry.
The world outside is diamond jelly and breathless-still.
Our cushy armchairs are aflame, and we sit still.
If only I carried a thermostat! Still,
could be worse. Some parts of Europe are still
under snow, I hear. Trains, towns, quite still.
My kisses dehydrate you still.
We’ve ice in the fridge. You’re still
putting up with all this,
after all these years.
Love, you’re mine, still.
That time of year again. Conkers in the teapot. Leaves
spewing from my jacket sleeves and hickory leaves
laying flat their ghosts in your shoes and oak leaves
between each book page and sassafras leaves
beneath our pillow, where our heads leave
soft impressions. They barely leave
room for your things, all these leaves.
Halloween’s almost here.
Your note on the fridge.
Love, you’ll soon leave.
Soon all this ice I carry will splinter, become snow.
I can’t keep doing this to you. Each year, the snow
of seasons in the living room. The first snow
flakes in our kitchen, tables and chairs snow-
crusted citadels amid the snow’s
tumble. Knives and forks turned to snow
graves. My seasonal deaths. Snow
in your hair, as you wait
for my bright return.
Love, it’s time. Go.
Matt Haigh lives and works in Cardiff. His poems have appeared in a variety of print and online publications including: Poetry London; Poetry Wales; Magma; The Guardian and Ink Sweat & Tears. He has also contributed to the Sidekick Books anthology Coin Opera II: Fulminare’s Revenge, a book of poems inspired by computer games.