Souvenir
There is upstairs in the spare room
in a cupboard upon a shelf
out of reach and gathering dust
a broken jar
which he can no longer fill
with salves such as pity, love, hope or self
The skin and what is within is dry and cracked,
the conscience flaked, peeled away, still
the view from the window is of a raw sky
bloody flayed glorious of and in itself
On bright days
This self she is supposed to have
where is it?
It comes mostly on bright days
when her mind is content
to be itself in her body a foot
within a shoe
with room to wriggle the toes
to take a step forward
On bright days
no shadows on the wall of the ordinary skin
that which she has always been wrapped in
broken and bound like a Chinese foot
sliced and scarred like a circumcision
a rare flower torn out at the root
that somehow survives
the self she has been promised
by all those other selves that surround her
those clean-cut sharp-edged provocations
she’s a spoon in a drawer full of knives
we all want to be knives
This self she has promised herself
a present that she has carefully wrapped
written and erased
on parchment each layer a palimpsest
a present that is yet come yet to be
yet to be opened
in a year full of Januaries of doors warped shut
bending of
beginnings disguised as endings
On bright days
when words fit more comfortably in the mouth on the tongue
when looking forward tastes more hopeful than
looking back
and what could be said could be sung
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The folding
She calls him out
into the garden
it’s late afternoon early autumn
sunshine
two sheets two duvet covers two
pillow cases
sailing in the warm breeze held aloft by wooden
clothes line props
two peaceful fully-rigged galleons on untroubled seas
one set a fading red the other white stained pink
against a cloudless blue sky
These are the steps to the dance, the folding:
she walks towards him arms held out
an embrace or an invitation to a fight
their eyes stare into these possibilities
he looks away first
Always him
then the exchange of corners a little clumsy
with the touch of skin against skin the intimacies
of strangers of familiarity of
fingers lingers
the music the colour of original sin
he steps away steps back pulling the sheet taut
now they are fish caught on a line hooked
frozen wanting
to tear themselves free
Yet somehow it seems to them both both
sweet and sour
this favourite day
these minutes the fleeting
seconds at this hour
