dancing in mud.

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youve travelled for miles to sit quietly next to me
in someone else’s vintage couch
both of us damp and cold from today’s angry rain
dripping off our hair and your beautiful linen suit and my borrowed dress.

i have a pack of wet cigarettes,
i have a pack of broken memories.
you bring me expensive gifts
and the promise of a house overlooking the mediterranean sea

i could take the words you pronounce like ancient poetry
wear them like a patchwork apron.
i could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the loss that only i can see
would float off like dirt?
perhaps down the sink i could rinse up the what-ifs.

besides – what a bargain – no expensive phone calls
no lengthy trips on planes in the fog
no lonely stretches of time wondering and wandering
no time-difference and language barriers or
acquiring blessings from a new batch of strangers.
blessing us. blessing us.

am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
i realise Propaganda time is over.
i sit here on the spike of truth.
no one to blame except the slippery fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain
no one to hate except the acute feel of my floral dress
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.

it recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting at 23, returning at 34, inviting, causing a fever of need.
the time lost when you could’ve given me what i needed,
the perfect you, the head to toe –
all to be broken and laid carefully in a waterproof container
and hidden in the darkness under my bed.

i sit here in silence while you ask me in your musical words –
dance life with me. and i think –
i must disembowel this and then set the heart, the legs,
the potential of you,
and ignite, as I was once ignited,
and let it whirl into flame,
reaching the clearing dusk sky
making it dangerous with its red.

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