Bematist
Sisyphus calculating
counting
pacing taking the
measure of
the world from Alexandria
to the here and
now sees
the shadow reducing
along the curvature
of the earth
only
then to light up
the darkness
a moment
of water
caught
a well
slick
and
an
I
1
reflected on
a shimmering surface staring back gone
broken
after the party
where something
had happened
something in a
cupboard some permission
something that
made him think his luck was in
he walks her
home in the rain
walking together
alone
up the long slow
hill of Ashby Lane
him wanting his
end of the unspoken bargain
to begin her wandering to the end of her skin
a passing car’s
headlights picks them out
the sudden
change of size then gone
then the slow
turning turning away
of the unseen
driver’s eyes
suddenly she too
wants it done with
she can’t
explain can’t put it into words
the submission
she’s falling
under the wheels again
letting him lead
her on
towards the slow
uncoiling of humiliation
where she has to
pay out enough rope
something is to
be given taken
through a gate down a
garden path
half-lit under
trees down on her already
tattered coat spread
beneath them
underneath them the
cold slippery cement
of somebody’s
property somebody’s dream
some other
family’s sleeping lamentable darkness
they sell
themselves each other cheaply
as broken
his eyes are shut
tight hers are wide open starless
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
mirror
life is never really shared
like a small room with too much furniture
the impressive view tucked behind the curtains
the door locked with no way out
there’s little air to breathe
mind the gap
the walls are adorned with other people
they come and go
only you stay only you stay
they’re crammed into such a cramped space
all talking at the same time
all asking the same question
and they all bring you the same gift
they tell you it’s a window
that it lets in the light
and when they smile you smile too
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evidence
Oct ’73 written on the back
back then it’s another me that’s been
been left out in the rain, now
sloughed, an old skin I’d walked around in
inside out
shy to light exposed
tight fitting too thin on a frame
angular and sharp-boned
then slack had enough
wanted to give it back – gone
others came seeking themselves
in cut and paste memories in which he plays
a bit part uncredited
not quite a cameo yet
there are fingerprints DNA
the necessary narrative fallacy
a chalk outline on the floor
a photograph but
nobody
