Tonight I Can Write (The Baddest Lines)

“I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”
—Pablo Neruda, ‘Tonight I Can Write (The Saddest Lines)’

When I grab too tight
it leaves me, what it is—what I say

of it. It was the same
during our time. It’s the same

when naming something
“Mine”. Sorry! I meant…

Have I told you about the badger in my garden?
I hear it rustling, but when I stand up

to look, it leaves: it doesn’t want to be bothered.
And I rarely

call it badger. Though of course I do! Whenever
I try to write meaningfully

it only comes out silly. I love, I love,
I love. Is that better? It certainly feels so.

(But please don’t measure this. Don’t ask for my workings.)

What was I writing about again? The state
I’m in tonight?
I joke. I never forget.
Should I have questioned the badger?

Did I need to take a stand?
It was there
without me looking. But
OK—I will forget. As you’re certain I should be thinking of something else?

But why would I want to forget a thing like that?