Last modified: 24th February, 2001
Back
a hundred fish-hooks
catch my tongue
whenever we meet,
traceless barbs leave
no mark, but
the heart knows, it knows.
eight o'clock dash
on a Saturday night
to the
service station kwik-store
before home
to bed
with a cup of tea & a book.
yet,
there I see you,
it gives me pause to think,
the pity
in your carefully made-up kohl eyes
as you survey with some disdain
the faded sweatshirt,
tracksuit pants &
scraped back hair.
you,
in your immaculate,
elegant ensemble, a
passenger-seat princess
in your boyfriend's new shiny car,
could never know
I was once just like you.
smiling hostess, happy husband,
clean, pink baby tucked neatly in bed,
lighting low, garden flowers are
arranged
in sprays of
immaculate ease,
formidable
domestic conversation,
resounding silence resumes,
the awful scrabbling for
common ground to
contrived recollections of single days,
perfect choice of wine
matches
cordon bleu meal,
filter coffee
winds things up at
a suitable hour,
a faultless appearance,
flawless
performance,
silence & sensibilities
compartmentalised,
you & I
sit together,
swearing off
picket fences
for the rest of our lives.
good-looking cosmopolitan couple
on an evening out --
to the outside world they could
easily be mistaken for real.
so far, no matter how close.
he is all fluidity,
restless oceanic change,
reliable only in unreliability &
taking what he can get
when he can get it.
she is red welts, black-purple bruises,
internal haemorrhaging, hard, jagged
lines & list making; colour upon colour
in pretty patters, despite herself, or
because of herself.
to the outside world they could
easily be mistaken for real.
so far, no matter how close.
strangers.
you & me.
I think Mona Lisa
was a feminist. That
she had better things to do,
was itching
to get off her chair,
to involve herself
with a multitude
of interesting
occupations and
be done with
portrait painting pomposity.
She sat, still,
hands crossed over herself,
barely containing
her impatience, ready
to take flight
at moment's notice.
In keeping with
social expectation, however,
dear woman!,
she humoured the man,
pandered to his
artistic ego, even favoured him
with a wan smile that,
despite brave attempt,
could not conceal
the irritability in her eyes
at such flagrant
waste of time.
Mother, Mother --
tossing & turning
in self-appointed
isolation, your
single bed,
this room of
your own,
padding the house,
an insomniac spectre,
reaching out
in the dark
for a voice on the line,
a telephone Messiah,
to quiet
or deny
your violent,
inner tumult,
you, with your
handful of happy pills
& maternal guilt
might recall,
I too have seen
my face
in that mirror &
become stronger
for its
reflection.
if i let the
loneliness out, it will
swallow me.
commercialism booms in la-la land,
cash registers open, close, open,
melodic money jingles squandered on
exorbitantly priced red roses,
on candy-coated hearts not
sweet enough to choke down
bitterness of endless days
of domestic drudgery,
- still,
violins screech a
discordant dirge, distilled
disappointment resonates within
the empty space, a siren's shriek.
I sleep with a pillow
between my legs,
to remind me of
the comfortable familiarity
with which
you once
surrounded me.
I have this vision of you walking alone,
down over-polished, antiseptic tiles
in an airport corridor, receding
with every step you take away from me.
Your brave back suddenly
seems so
manly, square
and straight, so big --
The arguments and fights,
small silences and slights,
that have come and gone
thud dully, inconsequential.
The last thing I see
as you turn the corner
is the quietly accusing stare
of your full-to-bursting backpack.
when you shook me
up
against the wall,
told me that I drove you to it,
I wondered,
fleetingly,
if that's what they say
before they start hitting,
or after.
That dark look
of displeasure -- moody,
morose, thoroughly judgmental --
crosses your face, unbidden,
as I pour another
glass of red wine.
Makes me want to
finish the bottle,
drink it dry, savour
last saporific
heart-warming droplets.
Ruby opiate,
glass by tempting glass,
offers temporary refuge,
a precious poison.
I shall pour it faster,
relish rubescent roughness
of fermented grapes
once fat, burgeoning
purple-black, ministered
tenderly by sun seeds,
Against my palate -- now
so dry -- it might
bring tears to
uninformed taste buds.
Older than you, I am,
widely read & travelled,
admittedly inclined to
irresponsibility in spontaneity,
it's the strong intoxication
I like, invincibility inducing,
of prison walls
broken through to
unconstrained selfness.
Ensanguined glitter, crimson-shot
sparkle, rose-coloured jewel --
all hedonistic charm -- I escape
your ill humour, foul black clouds
that bellow and belch
demanding
attention and commiseration.
The dark, steamy substance
of our conversation
is addictive --
garbled gossip,
judicious jokes, and
insidious insights.
The lacy tops of
cappuccino coffees --
our mutual advices --
frothy
and
full of air.
Left too long --
exposed to the elements --
the ingredients
of our togetherness
evolve and evaporate
into a state of stained dehydration.
give me time, i begged,
to do what i must,
he wouldn't,
i left him.
for what the heart grieves
there is no hasty recovery,
no miracle cure,
loss beyond measure of space & time
is not marked
by the passage of tears,
but by the silent chill
that inhabits the heart.