Postscript
I was caught in the middle of drinking,
thinking it a good idea
to seem more human and real,
and starting to relapse into
my Christmas party predilection
of hitting or being hit on by my boss
so when she asked
what was the best gift I’d given
I told her about
a book of poems I’d written,
omitted almost all our loss;
the way that day I implied
you’d get to read them
and I told myself later I’d promised,
I couldn’t renege if I wanted,
even if in the time before you went home
the words we shared were nebulous, distant,
their cadence and rhythm lost on each other,
spoken like poor prose,
because you’d remember I said they were yours,
the way every day you were gone
I couldn’t forget we were too
yet putting them together as a whole
brought peace and wrapped me in a glow
luminous as my blush when the bemused printer
wondered were they a project or gift
and I had to say the latter
with the restraint I’d feigned
when his process had been delayed
as if none of this mattered
like when I waited for my friend to encase them
I was more brazen and able to face him
than I had been when questioned idly
by the stranger helping to recreate them
because I was committed now
like when I was certain you’d say no
but I still asked you out,
how I was terrified when I decided
to say 'I love you,'
knowing there was little chance
we’d work us out,
the way on every page I tried
to leave those words out.
- Neil Slevin
Artwork by Assumta Wallace