because I can't afford to send her anything

    (This is not a letter to Harriet Walter, but a poem for my mumsy because it's her birthday today. Don't all college-kid blogs need extremely bad poetry once in a while?)

I am gone

and you are gone

and gone are the days.

I've ripped open many small boxes

at the ends of their long journeys

(how cruel!)

in order to feast on their guts,

only to discover chocolate evidences of the fact that

you are still out there somewhere,

buying me sweets,

same as ever.

Will I not come back to you once more?

Will I not journey to the frozen north

to find my wandering home?

I will seek you out 

and burst through your door

skin burnt, eyes wild, mind victorious

and promptly fall asleep 

wherever there is room to lay down my bones.

A few short weeks later,

after the carols and the many lights,

we will both be gone away again.

This is the plan.
(But.)

I will carry you always 

in my blood

and in my cell phone.

You, madam, are adored.

The ocean sends its best regards

and the sun its warmest wishes.

I am sending kisses by way of the winds

(though they are notoriously bad postmen.)

Oh, getting too precious.

Throw salt in the air

and have your nasty, inebriated barbarians

bake you a nice cake.

PARTY HARD, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM