You are heavy in
her
Then
with surprising agility she is a boxing hare
in
retreat from you, her ghostly buck, conjured,
trying
again to land a husband's blow.
‘His
fists’, she pleads, ‘the bastard is back
in
the room!’ As if you would upend chairs, vaporise
the
remains of her life with oxy-acetylene eyes.
You,
shipwright, who pounded her to pieces,
a
fist of wages, kids. A blistering sulfurous arc
of
marriage still burning, and you dead.
I
sooth and set her drifting, distracted.
This
is how she is with the tides of her days.
Then
my voice, echo of yours, snaps her
to
the grid anew, steals her away to years ago,
younger
still. Again I am erased. She explains
waiting
for your Fairey Albacore engine over
Kentish
fields, follows every thudded detail
of
your touchdown. Relieved, her eyes seethe,
with
the seeds of interaction. My arms form
you
around
her, she squeezes. Her slug lips
spoon,
lie together. Iron belief in the flow
of
recollection with no end and no end.
James Bullion 28th March 2013
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