A hangnail drags

Beneath swigs of light, strings of wine

On a shared table; joists

Pierce through junk emails

Into the cul-de-sac we cycled around

Every night. The cutlery has been arranged

So carefully. Silver ribbons

Fasten my hair into a war of attrition

Between what is and what should have been

A dull meeting, a bowl of murky water filling

On my cabinet as murmurings dress up

And down bodies, ignoring spectacle.

Portraits gape, half-visible through grimace and grin,

Only glimpsed when a candle’s knocked over

On a shared table, flickering our silence

And a garland of fur coats.

It’s cold in the marquee tonight, never mind

This strange music, the glazed apples,

Merriment and spread of it all:

A rebuffing of tradition

That begins and ends

At the same time.

Words by Holly Errington. Art by Sasha Ranawake.