State, you have been reckless with my heart
and these endings hurt. I cannot trust again
your wheedling face and pillow talk.
What about those honey days?
Those tended gardens and bread for all?
State, I feel like a fool.
I trusted you and you sold my walking shoes
to someone who only taxis.
State, I’ve killed the children we would’ve had together
and buried them with my passport.
Jody Porter is poetry editor of The Morning Star. His work has appeared in Magma, Best British Poetry (Salt) and elsewhere. Originally from Essex, he now lives in London and runs events at the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. His website is alldeciduousthings.tumblr.com