Hailstones
19th November 2004
I knew he was there. It stirred me from my sleep. Inevitable, like the glinting demons at the top of the stairs, banished by the imperious gaze of the unshaded bulb, but only as far as the shadows’ menace; inevitable, like the scissor man who would cut off the dangling hands of careless children from his dusty lair beneath the bed. I knew he could see me through the crack between the curtains: only the lace and the glass and the ebbing strength of my will separated us.
He never smiled, my evening lover, his breath convolvulus and ivy, tendrils and gloss, his saliva the sweet downstream decay of a drowned sheep snagged in the branches to swell, his hands damp lichen and bracket fungus, his eyes the dark of a clearing in the pine on a cloudless winter night. He did not startle me. I must grip the handle, lift, pull and let the wind billow, caressing my hair, my long hair tangled for him at his silent command. And all love is a draining and a taking, so why do I complain? I, who am well-used by my visitor, He who calls into my dreams from the smooth tiles of the balcony, who grins in the cat’s rooftop stretch and the dog’s febrile yap. He cools my longings, just a bruise, a bruise and an incision. Draped couches and snaking women with droplet emerald adornments whose nails will scrape away my skin. Sometimes he begs my forgiveness when I am weak for failing to cure me. He is the soil in which I am laid to rest, the satin lining to sup on my fluids, the comforting nectar concealed in his embrace.
Unannotated
Unannotated
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The ink has run dry, the Muse departed.
