For Katie Poem by Arthur H Rowley

Katie asked me, in passing,
which of my poems were hers too
and I wondered why I have no answer
but here, enveloped in the warmth of too much free time,
I know

I am an artist of pain
all these words I borrow are not my own
they force themselves out of me
sharp and curdled
how can I speak of Katie
when to write of her would be to write of comfort
a constant warmth that we cannot shake
the reassurance that above and in spite of all else we have cradled each other
through darkness untold
I have songs in honour of her sorrow and of the love we had to spoon feed each other
I have stories titled after her daughter
a constellation for each burning ball of light I felt when she arrived
but I cannot write of the joy of Katie

these poems are dark mutated things
creatures I cannot control
perhaps in darker times I could have written of the things we've seen
of country lanes
and cars without seat-belts
the knives and fights and blood
back in the bad days
when I was quiet and unassuming
I could watch, unnoticed from the sidelines,
all her rageful youth
and how it burnt those who came too close
and how I, in private, envied her strength
for her ability to fight and kick and scream
while my rage lay dormant, consuming me

there are things she has said that I cannot forget
moments I will not lose
in cruelty and subtlety alike
how she held me as I sobbed in the back seat of a car older than us both
she has done things that hurt me
of course
and there are still things I cannot talk to her about
but why speak of sorrow and rage and peace
if I cannot praise her humanity
and know the inevitability that I have pained her also
no love can be pure and unsullied without suffering

these poems are bitter burning things
I too often neglect the kindness of my time here
the days spent basking in sunlight with her
the secrets we kept only for each other
know I recall them too
and with more vigour
but as this year is turning it's bed-sheets and preparing to start anew
I prefer to keep them for myself
and not waste them to be poisoned by my words

I know now why I cannot write of Katie
I have too much to say
and not nearly enough time

but I can confess
what a gift we have been given
to see the raw creatures within each other
gnashing and scarred
and call it a comfort.