Fungi in the pool

I see your lips shaping to call out my name.

I’m already looking down. The pool

beneath my feet turns acid, acrid memories rising

to curl, choking, around my throat. They are monsters,

and I can no longer run. Give me

the alkaline words that I need to neutralise them,

turn them into harmless fungi

that one day will be plucked and fried

over a low heat ready

to be served up for breakfast,

where we sit together finally,

laughing and talking about things like we always should have done.