His car is a nervous breakdown,
scattering chrome along the motorway.
He gasps through panic attacks
in tunnels and medieval towers.
The falconry display goes on regardless
and eejits in velour have a crack
at each other with plywood lances.
I’m in fugue state, headphones glued
to me as mum calls to accuse him of kidnapping.
Come for a drink, he says.
No. Retreat to the Travelodge,
dry my one pair of decent flares
rancid from days of rain,
in the mysterious trouser press.
My anger flits and shifts
like a clot of starlings.
He presses into my hands
some Günter Grass,
and Sylvia Plath—
time-capsule messages
in a language we don’t share,
and the evening heaves
with the bellow of cows
taken from their calves.
Holidaying with Dad During the Divorce
Saturday, January 15, 2022
Saturday, January 15, 2022