SHE WAS

(WRITING A NOTHINGY LITTLE POEM AT THE AIRPORT)

caught. in the updraught of his anger. black chaff in the teeth. between the marrow and the membrane. the marrow and the morning. tied in knots to a mayday’s railing. her covert, curdling rage, screamed into a tea-towel. thine is the kingdom of chill delight. skinful of vertigo. sink full of dishes. the cold cage of hunger.
stale ribbons in her hair. where ecstasy is impudent, her rituals are diligent, omitting nothing. stern and earnest, tilting stiffly, her vacant stare a sieve for strain. his world, profane, various. he ventured mirth, crouched and drowsing on his heels; plugged up her mouth with worldly learning. in time she became fastidious and spinsterish, had typed, commercial ampersands for eyes. her days were grief and tedium. tedium and grief – dinner parties. a stolid spouse askew with humour. hers was a shrewd little tune in accordance with melody. you can play the disguises assigned to you. what else is there? her exhausted scorn and bitter comedy; lust, the hot magnitude of it, inevitable respect. who wants it? batten down the masterpiece! declare yourself an undiscovered genius! those are bro dreams: trashing yourself free of freedom itself. the albatross is a cursor, hovers whitely over opportunity. then it’s gone. he’s gone. clickety-click. his stark departure cuts across everything.