-
- Remember this on your return
- when polaroids of the grand affair
- arrive on a Monday morning.
-
- How could they have been taken?
- Who could have taken them?
-
- Enrolled under candlelight
- containing the throes of passion;
- the modest, but not too modest
- acrobatics of the mattress.
-
- More worrying still
- your lover looks perfectly intact
- like she’s in league with
transience.
- In the photographs your face
- seems heavy with paint, towed
- into a laughable intensity
- which has dropped you off in hell
several times.
-
- She never ploughed her
- life story like you. You moved
through the shit
- like a petty tractor, getting
stuck in ditches,
- gouges of earth, deregulated
graves.
- All for want of a medal.
-
- She tippy-toed around her
- own punctures and deaths as if to
say
- ‘That’s generally what
one does with plutonium.’
-
- Although if memory serves
- her actual remark was,
‘That’s another story.’
-
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