They say that wild geese mate for life, and so I was happy
when I saw them with you.
But then I think no maybe it was swans that we saw,
or maybe it was geese but maybe the ones who mate for life
are actually swans.
Either way maybe I have got things terribly wrong.
Things are not as they appear, they say, but I did not know
I could get myself into such a confusing situation
where I can’t even tell if they are wild geese or swans.
And where the knowing which they are,
and then knowing which ones are in the myth,
and then knowing if the myth is to be believed
is the only way I’ll know
what’s going on
with me and you.
Now I’m trying to think of a name for this poem,
and I think it’s pretty good as long as it has a name
that gives some kind of answer and answers
I don’t have right now,
have never really had, only questions, in layers,
like an onion as they say.
Or more like lasagne. I think maybe the answer is lasagne.
Mum’s meat lasagne which she didn’t make very often
because it was a lot of work,
twice as much work as spaghetti bolognaise, and
twice as many dishes to wash up too
so that means too much work for mum who cooks the food
and for dad who does the dishes
and god knows they were already overloaded
with work with the three of us.
So when mum made lasagne it was an extra special night
and tasted like meat, and love, and tomatoes.