On the table, this morning, remains of
last night, of a fire with friends for his
birthday: one more sleep till fifteen.
I clear up, make some coffee, sit down
with the Saturday paper: When I think
that it won’t hurt too much, I imagine
the children I will not have. Choose not
to have, given fears and predictions and
knowledge of impact. I too have carried
these facts, felt their shape, the grief
and the longing. Mostly, a child is so
abstract to me. That too I remember.
That and the moment it turned: suddenly
none of it abstract. Things I can’t now
unimagine: his voice, just starting to
break. His moods and his migraines;
his quirks. The way he loves jazz and
his playing of it and the way he debates
other worlds: the questions they raise
and the answers they don’t.
On the table, tonight, we play poker,
Stan Getz in the air. For now, it is this:
gambles and improvisation.
Ute Kelly started writing poems on her phone during lockdown, often while out walking in the woods or on the moors she can get to from her house. Sometimes while sitting in trees.