by Mary Paterson
In the future
they will tear this place down and surround
the site with hoardings decorated by children. The children
are not a metaphor but the building site is: concrete
craned on top of concrete like so many emails,
so delighted to announce.
In the future, the compostable cutlery will congregate
at tactile street corners. Pocket parks will be festive with pirate ships.
Screens of the future will stand as tombstones over old music venues,
their skins alive with teasers about the end of the world.
Four Stars for an apocalypse.
Five Stars for an emotionally devastating depiction of humanity
past the point of no return.
This is the point at which something real is supposed to happen.
Not something real like emails.
Something real like a body,
like a body that belonged to a child
all the way til last summer.
The body rolls its eyes and says, your mum
will become an archive when you’re dead.
Its voice has claws that catch in the throat like pollen, like everything –
still growing.
Something Other 