The Index Of Loss

Here is a new list
From your index-loving
London landlubberly
Homeless poetess.
This inexhaustive catalogue
Announced itself
With an unflinching focus on
My losses; losses I could not resist.
What else would I do with my pigment?
There are many matters
For my conservationists
To tell their grandchildren
Before we forget
What we have expunged
In recent years,
Which incidentally I confess
Is as long as the hex
Held me in its torpidness.
In no particular order then:
Hitchhiking,
Self-moderation in politics,
VHS and compact discs,
Car tax certificates and
The Lust of Velologists;
Yes, things which used to exist,
Extinguished existentialists;
Dreams of archaeologists,
Ozone, arctic shelf,
All trust in the famous
And icons with wealth,
West African Black and
Northern White Rhinos.
There was a success
Eradicating viruses, true,
Such as Smallpox, and Polio,
Until SARS-CoV-2.
Serendipity found only in libraries,
And the accurate use of apostrophes,
Redundant prophecies,
Diplomacy and statesmanship;
Any atomized item to furnish the list
May some day yet resurface;
If as with vinyl it’s retro,
If DNA’s injected it’s revivalist;
An internet without the bots
Which grease
Half or more of the trafficking bits;
Chocolate bars in larger parts,
Justifiable war, and any peace.
Innocence fled having witnessed
How Cupinharós were mistreated,
Faith soon followed for people
Who lived, and loved,
At Srebenica and Badajoz,
Mosul, my neighbour next;
Reading for pleasure by daughters
And the use of offline maps;
Post from someone expressing
Affection and kindness, instead of bland
Official letters
Unlicked into envelopes the colour
Of a lizard’s vomit,
Words now used and always wanting;
Lastly, for now, I will finish
With ethics and veracity
Where the investigatory power
Buried a woman, then truth,
On a small Mediterranean island,
Where a car exploded one summer.

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