May 11, 2018
Lughole, by Chris Walsh
I know I’m a bit low
When I find myself studying
The Wikipedia page on Suicide.
It seems so brave,
To one feeling that pain.
Might things improve?
Does magic exist?
Like Cher, can I turn back time?
Tonight, to sound like Andy Capp,
(who after all was from my part of the world)
I got it in the lughole
From both mothers of my children.
“Do I want to enter into this conversation?” I asked the last.
Then I give my youngest a bath.
I dried her, put on clean nappy, kissed her pot belly.
She is the image of my eldest daughter
Who no longer speaks to me.
The tension is terrible.
I have learned to use silence.
It’s better than freaking out.
I’ve known businessmen who got everything they wanted
But I’m no hard man.
No sooner has the quiet conflagration ended
I am wracked with guilt.
Children are guilt.
Pink loud loving guilt.
I leave early in a huff,
Drive home to my flat above the kebab shop
In my car which constantly tells me the brakes have failed.
I get a text from the mother of my two eldest,
Five years bitter
The woman to whom I have driven
twice a week to get the kids
for five years,
an hour each way;
“When will you put the money in?”
Wikipedia tells me
That suicide is often the result of financial difficulty
Twinned with mental illness
I’ve got the fucking lot.
When I study the list of suicides (from 500 BC to 11th May 2018,
That poor Scottish singer and the bridge)
I am kind of touching base
With souls I can relate to.
People who don’t fit in.
People who blazed