say sorry. freckle sneak.
Tuesday
It was a Tuesday - so the cryings sounded nothing like the fumbleof the dustbin men collecting, or of abused,
neglected housewives shoved on early morning telly.
(The rigid hosts all nodding. The rigid, stately hosts all nodding
to boast forth such feigned and shameless empathy.)
And
quite possibly it was everyday...
other than the fact that this was undoubtedly a Tuesday and
yet not the kind of Tuesday to conduct itself in the
summer - so the cryings failed to sound
anything at all like old men cutting the grass.
I wouldn't know - but if there was ever a first time you
spent the entire night in that steady little bed,
fully clothed and sleeping steadily as a simple road map
then she has eroded it from her steady and
unwavering brain.
If I love her at all then it is only inside three reasons (so I said
"sorry". I said
"surely I must try harder.)
1.) All of her clothes are the exact same
colour as the Thames is on
any given Tuesday to present itself in the unsummer. (Often I wish and wish that I was old enough to describe summers as "heady". Of course I couldn't be sure if you already know or not - but sometimes - in Backwards Space - support groups are held, to help people in coming to terms with not being born in the decade of their choice.)
2.) That voice. That voice is like the squelch of
tiny little fingers pushing the flinty seeds into each strawberry on earth.
The settling gulp. The resting life.
3.) Because even with those bulging headphones on. Even with
Mr. Sincerely L. Cohen plugged in
she still stops
to watch the scruffy buskers
singing.
(Her head feels like the twinkling of the coins
Splashing in the hat.)
I promised I would be so good today. We promised we'd scribble a dreadful note to the dreadful lady in the flat above -
begging to end the dreadful struggle over who can
moan
or scream the most like a rainforest chopping itself
into ballroom floors.
It just says "oh so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry".
Sometimes I feel awful. Sometimes her face looks like a dreadful eclipse
and her hips swell up like bruised plums. And sometimes he thumps and he shouts and shouts, and tells her "fuck you" and so all of the sculptures are bumping grass verges and all the grass verges are almost dead people - and so there is no sequel. There wasn't time.
Sometimes he ruptures and calls her "you old dilapidated cunt".
Sometimes I wish the ceiling would split open and
she would drip down like rain drops and land
splat in my tea, and that I could be pleasant for once and keep her warm in my belly.
Just I am not very good at that.
I couldn't bare it.
Sometimes your lovely face is so close that
your eyelashes feel like tiny brooms
trying to sweep away my freckles.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1009 times
Written on 2005-08-05 at 13:06
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