Iain Twiddy: ‘Lift’ and ‘Condensation’

Lift

Might he be the only one
among the 368 (excluding crew) crammed on board
who thinks that this miracle,
which may as well be a planet—

which the leaflet says
has a length of 73.86 metres,
a 60.93-metre wingspan,
a cruise speed of 554 mph,

a maximum 299,370 kg capacity,
of which 171,171 litres can be fuel,
which has two massive turbofan engines
hanging groaning off the wings,

each packing 440 kN of thrust,
which can blast from London to Tōkyō in barely 11 hours
at eight miles or 1.5 Mount Everests high
with a following, battering-ram, big-banging wind—

is paltry,
compared to the time
the father he might have just left
for the last time

last lifted him, as a kid.

Iain Twiddy

Condensation

Not annoyed, not really, when the bedroom door
hollowed open, and he eased in, dressed for work,
with the grey block sponge and the pale sick bowl;
with the curtain scratched, scratched back, he would slide

long squeaky strips down the window, as some drips
ran shivers, and the sponge would be plumply gripped
into squishy trickles of thaw-clear water,
before he moved to the side over my head.

Not annoyed, really, to be so squeaked from sleep,
as if a mouse had scraped across the eardrum,
but still wishing that the clarity of school could be
put back, the sting dulled like a wasp in the duvet.

Where I sensed him this morning, clear as a dream,
the curtains closed on Japan’s savage winter;
sensed him there—hesitant, penitent—wishing
he could step gently over the threshold of sleep

and take the breath he gave me away again.

Iain Twiddy