A dropped paring knife, a tray of potatoes
in hot fat slipping from the work surface edge.
A dough overworked. A haircut, one side
then the other, then the first again. I’ve tried
to save so much it would be better to let go.
A finger opened to the white for a dent
avoided. A sopping burn to stave off
a semi-public mess. The losing exchange
of potential for completion. Beauty chased
till it got away. So many of mum’s stories
ended with “and all for”: he swerved and broke
his neck and all for a squirrel. I asked
him once, my old games teacher, if he wished
he’d gone on straight and squashed the bastard flat,
but words are cheap, and he lied, as you should
to a child, and he said he’d do the same.
Ali Lewis is associate editor of Poetry London. His debut pamphlet “Hotel” is published by Verve.
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This article appears in the 17 Feb 2021 issue of the New Statesman, War against truth