A dead rat could be a dead lung
except nobody wants to touch
a dead rat without gloves.

At the end of the funeral
my son asks when will she
climb out of the box.

He learnt to say ‘pigeon’
by asking what the flattened
thing was in the driveway.

Each morning for a week
he’d run to the window waving
at its disintegrating wings.

Like this he learnt the perils
of grapes, to grip banisters
& stand still for sun block.

In the park he insists we race
& like any good father
I make my body age.

He leaps claiming victory
I feign a sadness offering
his rapture a little more time.

He wants to keep a leaf for a pet
I want to warn him about getting
attached to things already lost.

In the bath he needs to know
where water ends when it
disappears along with dirt.

At the table he folds a napkin
into a frail boat, pushes it along
an edge.

We watch a snail work the earth
he asks if the trail is a thing
it makes or it leaves.

Ladybird blood is a firm yellow
containing only signal released
when danger’s close.

He balances a blueberry
on a spoon reaching for
my hand before crossing

when a motorcyclist is down
most of us will stand one of us kneels
nobody’s sure where to touch.
 
 
‘Things Already Lost‘
from After the Formalities by Anthony Anaxagorou
Reproduced with permission © Anthony Anaxagorou