Chiromancer

I’ve read your palm so many times:

holding your hand on that first date and

now walking London streets; after

sex when touch seems so much more

intimate; even now when

intimacy has gone but your

slender hand seeks mine in the

silence of sleep but despite

knowing it so well I still

cannot read your future, nor

mine.

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The Lost Thing

Fridayam's Blog

The search for the lost thing turns the

house upside down: drawers are

tipped out, bins rifled to their

mucky depths, papers

stupidly shaken; every step taken

retaken, reconsidered, was it

lost then? was it there when

that happened? Then, usually, the

lost thing turns up where it

always was and we laugh at our

forgetfulness, ignoring the

upside-down house and all the other

lost things within it.

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Winter in Suburbia

Fridayam's Blog

Past, present, future commingle in this

uncertain weather, dull at dawn,

spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,

there one moment, gone the next, wind

waking dead weeds, the

threat of snow without the

glee of children, late and

unexpected sunset, startling stars,

silence, approaching midnight, as the

dryer switches off,

static making sheets

dance like spectres.

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Morse Code

Fridayam's Blog

The planes come in like morse code

(dot, dash, dot, what are you

telling me?) resolving into

gaudy crucifixes passing overhead,

tubes full of happiness and stress, just like

life really–are there good deals,

marriages, love, hope, new

life on board? But, breaking air, they

vanish over the horizon—

dash, dot, dash—their

message undecrypted.

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“Whole Californias” (Flaubert)

Fridayam's Blog

I hear him playing in the night

through the floorboards

as I try to (but cannot) sleep.

My husband who complains all through his

daily lessons always sleeps soundly

amidst these nightly private shows.

Daytime is bedlam here and the plinking of

incompetent pupils jostles with the

incessant squall of infants

and the sulky bulk of my husband,

sorry for himself because he has no work

and I, in consequence, too much.

I mend my musician’s clothes, probably,

but which is his of all I do?

which his wife’s? and which is mine?

I know I should worry about the price of

bread or whether Berthe’s cough might

catch and kill her

but a tune he plays is tickling me,

makes me want to dance again

as I did once, red and laughing,

until I fell into bed alone

uncaring, adrift on

whole Californias of dreams.

A moment’s silence, then…

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A Dead Lover

Fridayam's Blog

Death came on to you as abruptly as
you came on to me in that
club, with Christmas coming.

I didn’t perform well–sorry. Too much
alcohol, and I was probably
star-struck, as

scruffy little Runners are not often
chased down in clubs by
leading ladies, but you were

young and alive and
perpetually horny, and I
really don’t mind that I was just

another notch on your bedpost because
however brief, my notch is
deeper to me than Death’s.

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Motes

Fridayam's Blog

The shaft of late afternoon sun

cut her body aslant from

shoulder to hip, picking out the

faint albino hairs, the riot of

priapic milk-glands about her

tumescent nipple, the shadowed

underhang of her breast, the

heave of her stomach after such

unaccustomed exercise, the

drops of sweat trickling to her navel

and the dark hair below now

bright as a bush full of raindrops.

 

As I lay back her hand sought me,

hoping for more, and the sun

caught the motes—some no doubt

her skin, some mine—slowly

settling through slashed air

to make one flesh.

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Yes and No

Fridayam's Blog

Jane said no, but then we were

so young, though she taught me

how to kiss; and Viv said no,

sadly, as she was experienced

beyond her years; then Rita said yes

but we were never really alone;

another Jane said yes, but

didn’t mean it, never let me get beyond her

beautiful breasts; and the boyish

Canadian girl said yes, but

wanted her boyfriend involved and I got

cold feet, stupidly; but then

Sarah said yes and suddenly

yes was in fashion, “yes I will Yes” ,

everyone glanding the

Molly Bloom on all our bookshelves.

 

There might have been more yeses

had I been able to read the

maybe in women’s eyes, but you

unexpectedly said yes, and yes

suddenly became the most

complicated, portentous,

mysterious word in the Universe,

much more troublesome than no.

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Robins

Fridayam's Blog

A fluster of feathers resolves into robin

cocking its head, curious,

emitting a rare

convoluted trill that

summons another fluster, just

feet apart on the fence,

tilting its head to sing a

silent orgasm of air.

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Up the Downs

Fridayam's Blog

In England, what is up is Down

–land that is, hills of chalk that

snake across the South and West in

great green cumuli come to ground,

quintillions of cretaceous creatures

compressed and billowed

in a deep blanket over

dark dinosaur bones,

ripples of the great crash of

Africa into Europe,

aftershocks of Alps and Apennines but

big to us and sacred,

enfolding first temples,

holy hills and megaliths,

dead monuments to those

who live here still

like me, driving through winter gale

with leaves aping absent birds,

driven rain leeching through dead mouths

to the distant Channel.

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