This was not what you wrote in your diary
when you were twelve years old.
Not this holding of a second dead child
in a room next to the scrape of plates,
all those uneaten fish Friday lunches,
the drumming of pipes in a busy sluice.
I will marry Richard Harris.
Sing on Top of the Pops.
Not bite my nails.
Fill a country house with children.
Write a book. Have pierced ears.
Drive a car.
Live in Ireland by the sea.
Wear jeans all the time.
Adopt stray cats and orphans.
Own two wolfhounds.
Ride a horse better than Christine White's.
Travel to one name from each page in my atlas.
This was the hope list in HB pencil,
your future plans in neat joined-up writing.
You rock him and cry as is called for.
Marrying Richard Harris would have avoided this,
stopped this falling apart
in a space set aside for the purpose.
Marrying Richard Harris by Andrea Porter | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
20,00 US$Precio
