Poem In Which The Unremarkable Is Feared

They say my love targets children
(my kisses have yet to implode playgrounds),

that I have some spiteful agenda
as if I was the Borg, not an office worker.

When my mother was hospitalized
I’d sit beside the bed, alone

amid the stale piss-whiff and asinine azaleas.
Reassurance has no genitalia.

We need firm hands of either sex to hold.
Daily this blackness is heard: chitinous thoughts

burbling through the radio’s boggy speaker.
They worry at my poison life – what I do

in my own home – those shiny-armoured things.
Put out the bins, usually.

Matt Haigh


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