I married him when he was still a man
Before he became a metaphor for himself,
A person concealed within an idea.
And they say I’m the crazy one.
They can’t understand why I pretend
Why I set fire to things and make myself sick.
Poor chap. He’s given her everything.
The perfect life for the lunatic wife.
Even to me
and he thinks I believe him.
A fictional husband, a construct of a
Sometimes I have this dream;
I’m standing right in the centre of some embassy do
And I start to shout as loudly as I can
I tell them what he really is.
I rip the dull grey overcoat right off his shoulders.
And do you know what he does?
That cocky, cigars and burgundy Eton posh boy smile.
That’s when I find that I’m carrying a knife.
I wake up.
I kiss the kids and pour milk on muesli.
I move a cloth over enamel that’s already clean and
My hands twitch as I walk past the drawer.
I’m longing to find out if he’s real, underneath.