No Forever

Claudia Friel

the day I heard My Way

Sinatra’s spirit wafted through the heavy air, over the hill in the backroads behind my secondary school

& we were drinking desperately; my demeanour screaming: too-old-to-be-loving-this but I think Igot away with it – the newsletter that Sunday said: local hero-girl did NOT supply the warm carbonated piss, that spilled all over the school’s front steps though a little time was taken to pry some phantom excess through – whatever it was we used to say in the way that bored kids do

& no ants were drowned in the making of that day.

& all this time, us drinking –him really, really drinking –those words into their graves; looking at each other; through each other; (a long way past the eyes) – to somewhere the newsletter each Sunday says: here it is; this is forever.