Poem for the wounded

When
the person you love
starts to
spend kisses 
elsewhere, 
when
death is a bull
amongst
your circle of friends, 
you will:
sit, 
ache in rooms, 
stare 
at walls and doors
and the spines of books, 
and not be able
to move
towards them.


You will look:
at the clock, 
down at your hands, 
into the mirror.
You will search them all
for meaning.


Sometimes
it begins
with
looking out a window:
you'll see
birds
glad for the sky, 
the night
opening
its book of stars, 
the neighbourhood
wise with sleep.
and you'll know
at last, 
that pain
takes you away from
your place in the world
and self-belief
puts you back.


And so
you move
towards the real.
Set flame
under a kettle
and just that
right now
seems
victory enough.


          - Peter Bakowski