Singapore Chow Mein (Collection Only) by Emily Cooke

At 38 and a half weeks gone,
I had a sudden craving, a –
penchant for the salty, claggy noodles
they sold down the road
at A1 chippy.
With no-one around to collect on my behalf,
I grabbed my bag,
waddled myself heroically downhill,
leaning backwards against my own
considerable gravitational pull
and slowly, but very surely
inched my way along.
I gasped out my order,
headed back;
hot plastic bag clasped tight in bloated hand.
Hips splitting with each
step, demanding a
           to let them knit
together again
Only halfway back up the hill,
I had to ask myself
Is this really worthwhile?
And perhaps I imagined the wry smiles
of strangers, but the smell from the bag
offered me reassurance
and on we went
Just four short weeks later,
two weeks post-you,
I felt that old familiar pull.
Dialled the number, made my order.
Hastily pulled on my coat and my shoes,
almost went straight out the door,
almost went-
before I remembered
remembered that
I couldn’t go out-
just like that, with a hastily
grabbed bag-
to get something
there I was
unencumbered by my bump, but
there you were; on the outside.
Something had ended
Something had begun