Patrick Wright

 

 

 

Aubade

The sun gives the curtain the look of love,
its light through a bride’s organza,
as I leave your rapid eyes and wonder
how far you’ve gone with the tramadol.
Somewhere you’re lucid, scaring yourself
I’ll leave you.
The meds prolong the limen between
what’s real and not, as I rehearse words
to reassure. We are only six hours
from the rush of oxytocin, from a feeling
everything’s okay. Yet where you are
is dysphoric again.
I can tell from the way you blink
out of your paradoxical sleep
and then come a litany of nightmares.
They sound like times I’ve overdosed
on valerian — less so a narrative
than a kaleidoscope of selves.
I kiss you through your fringe,
say all is sweet, repeat, know this
and a tisane should do the trick.
Yet our thoughts collect from separate
pillows, where we ring-fence the fear,
as we turn each night and jilt each other.

 

 

 

Patrick Wright has a poetry pamphlet, Nullaby, published by Eyewear. His poems have been published in the Best New British and Irish Poets anthology, judged by Maggie Smith. He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.

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