Tartanalia Andy Breckenridge

Andy Breckenridge

I stand outside your window at night waiting for you to open the blinds and see my tartan face the whites of my eyes

shot with blood lines - green irises popping see how the plain silver kilt pins jawbone my skin together in the wind see how

symmetrical and intricately blocked I am - each sawtooth of green dovetails with dark blue in a precise matrix

see how the straps and buckles fit so neatly through the slits in my waist - hold fast I was that night bus that snagged on departure

from Glasgow Buchanan Street and unravelled en route to London Victoria to help you find your way back - now I frown

at your lack of fealty and the accents of your kids and yours - while you sleep, I’ll slip sliver after sliver of tablet onto

your tongue until your teeth pop like lightbulbs see my gridlines keep everything in check stretch to infinity like a spreadsheet

weighing up the debits and credits (you are in the red) that’s me peering in right now, an arrow slit of borrowed moonlight

that’s my breath - that’s me hanging lifeless in your wardrobe - following you in the car lurking on shortbread tins and tea towels

as you scurry past gift shops at airports avoiding eye contact - weigh me is my cloth too rich and heavy?

Morning light slides past the blinds again and the first trains shake me out of the air.