I Want You To Know

You once asked what my greatest fear was. I think 

I fobbed you off. It was one of those truth and dare 

games we would play on long journeys, unwrapping 

the truth about each other like boiled sweets. 

You had so much past I hadn’t a clue about,

and I had so much present. I think I can tell you now.


When my nails bite blindly into your sweaty palm,

perhaps a saline drip snaking from veins as potent

as viper venom, I’ll see your face mascara-stained,

panda-eyed, both of us endangered species. I want

you to take my hand palmed against yours, 

this hand you used to ball and cover with your own. 


Our fingers were fields of butterflies then, painted

and pressed, childish masterpieces proudly displayed

on the fridge. Days as brief as g-strings, collages 

created with PVH glue and snippets of glossy magazines.

Soon, you’ll just have those keepsakes left. 

A mother’s hoard of relics, the scrunched-up 

tissue paper of fake hyacinths falling off like petals,

exercise books, photos, cards. I want you to know

all this in a clumsy, drugged touch that says I’m still


here, I’m still your son. Silent signs that say I 

remember picnics with Canadian geese, crocuses along 

the Serpentine, beachcombing and discussing divorce.

I want you to gather up all those tubs and pots of 3TC, 

wash out those chemicals and make a spaceship. 

As easy as AZT. I want you to have the baths I stole,

jumping in first, the scent of So? carried in the spray.

‘I love you’ written in the mirror, with smiley faces

and hearts soon running with condensation.

Bath time was sacred, taking the chance to corner each

other in watery recesses and chat. I want you to shout 

when I tell you the truth, not those diluted truths 

I used to, squirming among bubbles, hiding moist love 

bites that didn’t mean a thing. I thought you needed 

to be sheltered, when really it was me. 


I want to say it all in just one touch, get up and phone, 

tell you my unfounded fear. As he sleeps soundly,

sated, that well-defined chest, rising like a wave. 

I want to be safe, in your arms and not his, 

as if it will all happen in a flash! Oh no, 


it’ll be a slow game, as drawn out as childhood. 

About Morgan Melhuish
Morgan Melhuish has had poetry published in Manifold, short stories in The Next Wave and A Treasury of Brenda and Effie and is developing further work whilst travelling the world. You can find out all about his adventures and see more of his writing at www.mmorethanapage.com

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