Hylda Sims
Measuring Up
The thing we’re shifting doesn’t fit
in the space that waits for it -
it won’t go through the door
or round the corners;
checking beforehand ought to warn us,
but it isn’t out by more
than an eighth of an inch;
I always think that at a pinch
things’1l squeeze in.
It’s an original sin
to believe that deal and chipboard
are similar to wool -
malleable;
they’re not, and I’ve ignored
your words, you’ve got all the weight;
we’re struggling, trying to keep it straight.
Now there’s a square chest of drawers
on the landing, stranded, mine of course.
We lie here back to back
most of the night -
you sulking, me contrite
leaving a draughty crack
not quite an eighth of an inch;
we touch and part, trying to flinch.
Page(s) 26
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