Emily Wills


She surprises herself by not wanting to be rescued
from chopped chilli and pumpkin, and it could be the onion,
or Jeff Buckley’s almost unbearable high notes,
or something as outdated as gratitude

for this line of washing, billowing dry, in colours
she’d never have chosen, against all the odds
after a forecast of rain. Remember me, remember
me sings Dido, that terrible angel of a voice, risen again

from drowning, from all she once thought love
might be. And it’s a miracle, when you think about it,
to have beached up here, with only the Bible
and Shakespeare and Fifty Recipes for Soup

and one luxury – as if it were possible to choose
between the flapping stripes of non-iron shirts
and the clematis he planted, forgot to prune,
now massed pink, unreachable in the still-bare trees.

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