His Wife Was An Electrician by Gareth Culshaw

He wore slippers made of duck feathers, drove a skoda
through the snow, but a lada in the months of summer.

I never knew if he liked oranges or apples as he ate both

at the same time. His wife was an electrician fed the house

light bulbs through pringle tubes. She had wired him up

for years and when he walked you saw him leaning

on a lamppost as if running out of battery. They were married

for the length of my childhood. He made scones on a Tuesday,

and bread on a Wednesday. Brought them to the local school.

We spread butter with our ironed palms, used lego teeth

to change the shape of the food in our mouths. He walked

his dog every day with a brown belt for a lead. His flat cap

fizzed with electrodes that his wife planted in there before he left.

If our ball landed in the garden we knocked with our feet

hoped the rubber soles kept us alive. He answered through

the letterbox, talked out of a tuba mouth. His wife watched

us from the living room window as we hovered above the lawn.

Daffodils grew along the borders and other plants, teachers

talked about in springtime lessons. I knew the colours,

but the shapes eluded my empty brain. We left with quick

feet, closed the gate, and jumped back onto the earth.


Gareth lives in Wales. He has two collections by FutureCycle called The Miner & A Bard's View. He is a current student of Manchester Met. 


Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Things They Don't Tell You by Barbara O'Donnell

Letters never sent by Beth O'Brien