Iron stained fingertips
at the bloodhungry mouth of morning.
We wear our sighs
Keys searched for,
keys found with
We enter through the front door.
The country music station
clots our eyes
among swollen happiness.
when a delicate elderly hand
reaches for heaving shoulders,
lips whisper corroding shards
We are asked to leave through the back.
until the air
until we realize life
has never been easy.
Fingers ironstained and quaking,
drink and remember
the incarnadine colour of losing.
The Weight of What We Carried
Some dreams die in the womb others,
in the toilet
We don’t float anymore, lately
Our clutching fingers hold aloft tests
that only prove
we can stare longer, read deeper
into unstained disappointment.
We are not a mistake, you were not
Nor you, you, nor you
not even the absence of you
loved and loved and loved and
dreamed and carried.
I press my hand into a hopeful,
I say, girl, girl, sticky
You press your hand to my heart
This will break us but we won’t die,
Dylan Taylor is Dad who sneaks off in the small hours to write. Dylan is a writer who spends his afternoons as a dinosaur. He has work published in Entropy Magazine, Pidgeonholes, JMWW, WhiskeyPaper & Hobart. Find him on twitter @MacTaylor89