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Clay Man
I'll admit it—that year I was obsessed with fertilisation and growth. The new flower bed had been my idea. You were kind to me—good humoured. You cut into the ground and lifted away strips of sod. Beyond our garden the crematory smoked with a burning. Ribbons of chalky ash lifted to the sky. 'You're so grave,' you joked, as I cupped my giant stomach. Our boy swam under my hands. Do you remember that day? We'd fought all morning. I'd refused to talk about f-ing floral caskets, about guardians or arrangements. The poet I was reading died young. He once wrote his lover shaped him like clay to fracture him later. 'Beautiful,' you said, and planted your shovel in the wound in the garden.
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