Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Whenever he shouted at me  

his spittle would fly out, 

I would watch where it landed 

with some fascination. 

If we were in the kitchen,  

I’d make a mental note 

to get out Dettol spray 

for after he had finished, 

and I’d try to focus, as it shrivelled  

and shrank, on where it fell,  

but he was remarkable, 

he could go on for hours, 

and maybe sometimes I’d forget 

and the kitchen never felt  

quite clean after that. 

I’d marvel at how fast and how far 

it could travel, often to fly  

and land in a perfect parabola  

across the dressing-table mirror 

in our bedroom and I’d see  

how the light would shine through it 

like tiny pearls strung along a woman’s throat. 

Sometimes, and often, 

it would fall on my face 

but I did not feel that.