Twenty Buns

Twenty bun-eyes staring. Twenty eggs. Provincial return to jelly-house where she is waiting with photos of your dinner. Placing them on the table, you like yours with gravy. Your face should be wet-fries as you call her your little names and hold her close, just like nothing is wrong. The ones we used to get from the holiday camp, when we spent a week at the caravan, just how it used to be. Every night, we would walk down there, so, so, the empty arcades, sipping at each other.

Balancing on the log, one foot goes from beneath you. You can switch off. With your thumb-prints still raw on me, I am reeling from it. You carry on, getting your foot up. Pulling yourself forward and blotting everything out.
Terrible things happened as the fire burned brighter behind us. Your heavy bull-head. Giant roaring beast.

The next day, back in the car, up the road, up the mill. No trouble, just me locked out. A faint bruise and a face-sling. One that holds up my eyes to make them seem normal. One that betrays my cheeks. One that ties at the chin. Keeping the two split parts of my ripped palate together until it heals.

Trying to speak. One side of my jaw challenges me, saying go on, speak the truth about it.