Three Poems by Galia Admoni

Immediately after and then later

1.

His leaving was a psalm.
An emptiness of words, ringing out
in the silence of the hallway.
I begged, of course,
knowing I was racing towards a life
without.

2.

I think of it as a tree –
oversized duvet edges hang like willows,
a sheet rooted into the frame
and the night’s dense air, a canopy.
It is unbodied.
It exists unpeopled, but not unpleasured
and all the empty is empty to be cherished.

3.

When it is really gone in the supposed-to-be-there place
there is acceptance.
Nothing cracks.
Everything unmoving.
All sound has melody, or at least purpose.

4.

I don’t miss you,
but when they ask about my love life
I shrug and say it’s terminal.

It is better to have loved and lost

is horseshit,
when almost eight years pass
and a whisper of Davidoff Cool Water
from a passer-by on the high street levels me.

The list of baby names
crafted after Daniel and Laura made Pearl
(unused)
is barely concealed between to-do lists
on the Notes app in my phone.
I catch a glimpse
and collapse on the kitchen floor.

And don’t even get me started on the photo album –
Vegas-sans-wedding
veiled in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag
at the back of the coat cupboard.

Barnaby

“…and I think it’s
an IPA, or maybe
a Pilsner…”
he said, and
it was evident from
the trailing off of
his voice that
we were having
one of
the most
boring
conversations
at
the
party.

Galia Admoni is a writer, musician and crafter, who works full time as Head of English, media and film at a secondary school in North London. She has been published in Atrium and Dear Reader. She has lectured at the Shakespeare Institute and the British Library, and is on the committee for the London Association for the Teaching of English. Follow her on Twitter @galiamelon