Trigeminal Neuralgia

I tell her that an early night makes all the difference to the pain.
I try to get to bed by ten, but it’s now quarter to one
and she’s still on the couch,
looking at me, wrapped in my woollen hat
with her metaphorical chin in her metaphorical hand.
She’s wondering if it’s Liadain leaving the nest
that’s caused it or perhaps it’s the pressure
of having memorised my own poems.
Her forefingers chop out a chunk in the air
to show me there’s only room for so much.
I touch my hand to my woollen brow –
feel a poem coming on.



Shakespeare Knew Cats

What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word
as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee!
...