Give me the sound of love
Not the flesh, nor the bones
But the tone
Whisper it slow
Let the words drift
On the wind’s tide and
Settle like snow
Roll them round
Your chattering teeth
Then echo it loud
So all else is drowned
Yell it out, burst a lung
Oh give me your love
til you bite off your tongue
the door clicks shut
like a cocked gun
a threat
a black tonne
dropped lead
an ugly word
the colour red
a hang rope
one heavy tread
a death bed
deepest pitch
a stabbing clack
a real bitch
a cry, a smack
and I long for you
to come back
Beyond weak, she
was now spelling it out
for him, like a mother –
holding the small
fat hand of her
first born, pushing
the stubborn fingers
around, as they
clutched a pencil
to shape the letters
of his own name.
His name.
How many times
had she said it now?
Could she count
how many times
she had laughed it,
asked it, stuttered
and moaned it
and even once –
in the vacancy of
quiet hours –
called for it, loudly
across an ocean
of silence.
sea has shaped it
opened it wide –
the ear of Venus
pressed together
like French chalk
on the sea bed
they tell us not
to take them home
but I hide it
immaculately
salt has smoothed it
painted it blush –
ever so slightly
pinker inside and
almost heavy
like a final word
When it gets late, we watch Cops on TV,
once all the rest have made their way to bed.
Then you make cheese on toast, and I make tea –
we feel inclined to sit up late, instead –
and though our conversation is quite plain,
you’ll show me something funny on your phone,
and when we laugh our ribs vibrate with pain,
as though at something we should have outgrown.
At three or four o’clock we start to shrink;
my tired mind begins to wonder whether
you’ll think about us sitting here, in sync,
when you and I no longer live together.
For me, it’s that I’ll miss, though it seems trite –
when we watch Cops together late at night.
ataraxicat 