Ian Williams

It is the prospect of unpicking versions

of yourself, collected over years and sold

—explaining why people were short-changed.

It is the feeling of betraying

and having been betrayed.

It is the running on ice,

the slap as you smile,

a condition set down like

the auctioning of your happiness.

But then, with a love-me-

love-me-not reasoning

it is also The Three of Cups tarot

placed neatly on the table.

The pliability of bone marrow,

renewing blood, renewing hope.

It is naked skin in the sun,

and the breeze that cools. 

It is the love-me petal on an oxeye daisy,

the final one.