Each time, he becomes a little smaller -
a nesting doll, essentially,
so you'll be in the middle of discussing something mundane
like becoming suddenly aware of your own tongue
or how it's impossible to roll your eyes back far enough
to see your brain,
then he'll reach up from his pint of mild,
and his fingernails will find a seam in the middle of his forehead,
a hairline fracture you never noticed before.
'No, come on Trev,' you say, 'not again.'
But he prises
and the two halves separate
in strings of gore and vernix
like the lid of a sarcophagus,
and he steps out,
smaller, his skin pink and raw
like a scald, and already,
he's reaching for his pint.
'Now,' he says, 'where was I?'
No comments:
Post a Comment