None of us
speak of you.
None of us
mention your name
in telephone conversations.
We are planning the second Christmas
where you will not be welcomed.
Last Christmas
I took two hours out of the day to visit the police station
and see the pictures your perversion
had crafted. I returned pale, sat in my car out the front,
heard the music and wept. I knew
nothing could ever be the same between us.
We hide the truth of you
from our mother - at eighty-three
she does not need, we seem
to have agreed (silently as always),
the truth of this relationship
so soured the European wasps feast
on the fallen fruit.
None of us
have a picture of you framed
and resting on the mantelpiece;
your smile that we now know hid
the sting in this tale is hidden in a drawer
or tossed into the rubbish bin
and lies cresting on a wave
of other discarded refuse.
I have not mentioned your name to my children
for seventeen months now
and I doubt
I ever voluntarily will.
