Recorded for ds106 radio, a single poem.
In restaurants we argue
over which of us will pay for your funeral
whether or not I will make you immortal. At the moment only I
can do it and so I raise the magic fork
over the plate of beef fried rice and plunge it into your heart.
There is a faint pop, a sizzle and through your own split head
you rise up glowing; the ceiling opens
a voice sings Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing
you hang suspended above the city in blue tights and a red cape,
your eyes flashing in unison. The other diners regard you
some with awe, some only with boredom: they cannot decide if you are a new weapon
or only a new advertisement. As for me, I continue eating;
I liked you better the way you were,
but you were always ambitious.