Grief for a sense of home

Grief for a sense of home 

That never quite materialised 

Has felt like watching the grey twitch of morning unravel; you’re folded over a coffee with 

Thick skins of Vaseline on the tips of your fingers leaving twin smears along the rims of paper cups. 

In the mirror you look at yourself baldly: 

A face washed curiously blank, the stickiness of torpor clings stubborn to your edges. 

There doesn’t seem to be anything to do but nod;

You let your gaze drop, find that you can’t pull it back up again. 

There is always music 

But in a more fundamental sense there is always silence.  

You are so desperate for noise you’d almost peel off your skin.

And eventually there is night, a dazed respite;  

These hums of comfort intersperse the contractions of grey, where 

Bath water is enough to stop you from drying up completely, 

Makes you think about that text from your little sister, 

I’d like to put you in a basket of dim sum and steam the sadness out of you. 

In the warmth and wetness, this makes you feel like a beached slug. You imagine yourself surrounded by steamed buns and hot bamboo, tearing off small, deliberate chunks of dough before bringing them to your mouth with a sheepish tongue. 

All the heat has snuck out through the crack under the bathroom door (it has tired of you and your feebleness). 

The tap is leaking, so you count the drips. One. Two. Three. 

Occasionally, you inhale. Deliberate giving yourself a soup-bowl haircut. 

Francis Bacon, Three Studies for a Self-Portrait, 1967. Oil on canvas. CR number 67-01. © The Estate of Francis Bacon / DACS London 2019. All rights reserved.