The fourth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

[More:]

Dear Dave

(if that is your real name),
there’s something you need to know,
it’s just knowing where to start.

Oh, hell, what about vaseline?
Must put in paracetamol,
my tape of calming waves.
It’s s’posed to hurt a lot,
like heaving a hippo
through a hole the size of a pea!

Do you remember me
– the girl with fake Gucci glasses?
I’ve tried to write before,
to that fancy flat in Fulham
with the carved CD rack
and cappuccino coffee machine.

You bastard!
You said you’d call.
Should have known
you weren’t the kind to care.
If you’d been more considerate,
I wouldn’t be in this mess.

This should be a letter of love,
declaring the dawning
of dreams and delight,
sealed with a kiss for the post,
but…

There are no whispered
words of wonder
packed in my bag,
no sweet nothings,
just nappies, nighties
and nursing bras.