It’s June and sweltering.
The kiss you left on my lips
is dying down.
Everything has changed.
The window shows me clouds
that have not altered,
the sky is ablaze yet refuses
to stain the light.
Meanwhile your morning progresses
and under some other light you’re
tapping out data,
or singing quietly to yourself.
Beyond the gate a man continues sweeping,
collecting fallen things. I contemplate window glass,
quietly fracturing on its own terms.
It is what
it is. But
what is it?
What it is –
whose two terms
Time to give, time
to give myself up
the first winds
the north roads
but towards you
Then in the morning’s grey light
but towards you
Right through the city
and right through
but towards you
To your voice
your being you
punctured into the real
by your lips
on my throat, making
the only possible
your touch a friend
I am getting to know
I spent the whole day
burning and writing, until
they became the same,
as when the planet covers the sun
with all its might and still
I can see it, or when one dead
body gives its heart
to a name on a list. A match.
A light. Sailing a signal
flare behind me for another to find.
A scratch on the page
is a supernatural act, one twisting
fire out of water, blood out of stone.
We can read us. We are not alone.
Love is more complex than gain
Though neither completely understood.
He was fourteen years old.
To the fact of the memory
The memory stands
As an axe to wood. Wood, ourselves,
In the streamings and contours,
The roughened grain.
Make a mark on me.
You hate yourself when the object that defines you, or at least you
think it does, is lost or broken. It makes perfect sense: you are the
one who is lost and it’s your own fault, having left it behind in
a stranger’s room for where else but in the room of a stranger
would you leave it, inadvertent, shoddily careless, the enemy of attachments. Or it is that you, or they, rush through the room in a hurry – slow
down you hear someone say – rushing out the door
or past each other in the street so many months later, knocking it into
a thousand pieces, glass shattered on the floor, the frame twisted,
a strange disfiguration replacing the face – the photographic paper
marred by shards – and it’s not only the having done it that one
must live with – one’s own arm thrown carelessly through the air –
but the evidence of what was meant to be.
You realise some piece of you has to be pierced in order for the
almost unbearable desire to be slotted into place. Do you suppose
they do that anymore, cut slots in cardboard for paper tabs, the
small hats fitted around the heads of children waiting in line
for the play to begin, their lines circling their brains so they won’t
forget, ‘I’m coming my prince, my princess, I won’t forget you, I
won’t ever forget you’, and when the performance, and the school,
and the brick, and the street are memories that come only in fits, the
way crayon skips on the grainy surface of the paper you’ve folded up
for the crown, you realise what the embrace of what you thought
you could die for has cost you.
You tell your wife and children
you’re having some tests.
They’re familiar with tests.
You tell them
you’re having examinations.
They understand examinations.
you’re waiting on results.
They know about results.
You are having tests, examinations, waiting
for results, for a piece of paper stating
how you fared.
You’re under pressure not to fail.
You are studying survival.
You are ill-prepared.
Half the time I’m microwaving something or planning a meeting
or deciding which blue shirt to wear and it’s all happening
Other times I wake up and the day’s flung out
in front of me like a roll of lino and I’d rather not step on it
I’d rather stay in bed thinking about you and eating toast
and East African doughnuts saying “Who owns this monkey?”
to a group of women, one night I dream of entering a lift
with sides that aren’t attached to its floor so when it goes up
I stay stuck on the ground; I take the stairs but none of this
is enough to reach you some things never change
Someone on the radio is shouting at someone between
seven-thirty and nine; thoughts of you line up in the corridor; and I’m
cranking out oodles of love the way an old spaghetti machine
cranks out spaghetti baby, it’s hard work
You are not the shell that shines on my table. You are not
the pillow of my hands.
You are not the metallic taste in my mouth
when I wake
(though you could be those threads
running underneath my tongue).
I doubt you are the strands of hair that survived
on my windowsill
(that lost their lustre).
Though you could be the windowpane itself, which
allows me the view of the sky;
the interesting birds.
(You are not the birds).
You are not hidden in bone, you do not bloom
in the marrow.
You are (in my opinion) not the rain in July
that studs my scalp.
(But you might be the heat pressing
against my body
when I struggle to sleep).
You are not the sacred cow, a murmur in the heart
or blood-spit in the sink.
If I open my book you might well be the moth’s
wing dashed on the page.
You are not the hand of God on an incoherent
But yes, I think you might be that moment
when the clouds ripen
(just before the rain,
before it hits the cloth of my shirt,
my cold hands).
It infiltrated, left a trace in my mouth
and I wanted it. Emboldened, it began
to colonise all those tight spaces.
So I let it bed under my fingernails
and drip into my tear-ducts. It felt so warm,
was my constant companion,
became one of us, on work days,
shopping trips, holidays. I never asked
any questions, never wished to see its face.
One morning it was just not there.
I searched and searched, panic rising up
in my throat, and I couldn’t manage
to say what it was I had lost, and how.