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Alison Eastley
I Wouldn't Dare Say There Were Kisses
Helen said a name can travel where a body
can't. There's more she could have said.
Grief prevented her watching sacrificial flames
and listening to the cries of birds when she
groped in the dark for the memory of approaching
footsteps. They belonged to her husband,
the one with the tendency to capitulate, to flee,
to escape as if his life was a series of precipitous
departures to the labyrinthine world of Hades.
The prophetess could have been a frenzied
slave-woman baring her breasts, tearing her hair,
her shadow a murder of crows circling
where the ancient dead were flying to the white
room, the one where he stayed. If Helen
wasn't so far away, she'd bribe all of Egypt
even if it took years to walk into that chilly room
for the strange silent exchange. I wouldn't dare
say there were kisses. It was the final farewell.
Not Doing A Paula
There is no way Michelle could have known "One
Of My Kind" was mentioned in a letter sent after a night
of wild dancing reminded him the distance of water meant learning
how not to drown from wishing she was present not past,
that somehow he could still play the guitar and sing hand written
songs for her, then they'd light each other's cigarette and try
not to drop ash on a future not had and there is no way Michelle
could have known she thought Michael was sexy in an androgynous
style, that she liked how he'd prance and pout, that she felt sorry
for Paula and thought she had always been misunderstood. To fast
forward is to blur the blues or forget blood is dripping from trees.
Sometimes it's like landing in one of Dante's dreams except the TV
is on and Michael is wearing a black leather jacket and torn
at the knees, hard worn jeans the same as Steve would wear if he
wasn't in Intensive Care after overdosing and she's on the phone
telling Michelle what happened the day of the suicide. He pleaded,
he begged, he said he'd do anything and she knew it was a lie
as big as the truth she'll never feel his warmth next to her tonight
or any other time. The truth is she won't do a Paula although
it doesn't stop the blood from each and every leaf
sticking to her feet if she dares to walk outside.
More Than A Clue
They say the dead live in the memories
of those left to grow, to change what at first seems impossibly
remote, that this ambivalent wish to die
while at the same time, a rescue plan, the one
where I rush to hold your hand, to tell you I understand why,
then I stay by your side and howl or maybe it will catch
me by surprise like the time The Angels sang "Am I Ever
Going To See Your Face Again?" It was late.
I was tired. I was too tired to sleep and it wasn't a drowning
dream. It was your voice breaking, your voice
and heart aching too late to take your tendency to escape
back into my arms so I could stroke your hair or lick
the sweat, do anything for the taste of when you were beautiful,
when you were true instead of watching you with the morphine
you chased harder and faster than any girl you fucked.
They say the dead live in memories of those left to clip
their toe-nails or to wash their clothes, to be ordinary
and decent while in other scenes delving deep into every day
until your suicide means nothing is removed
from the strength that is mine when I smile.
February 10
It was almost as painful
as the times you'd escape to the bedroom
and listen to terrible tracks from the days
when you had one foot off the planet
and the other one kicking dirt. You'd stagger
and slur chemically disturbed words
that didn't have a chance without land or water,
without air or fire. The magic of chaos
didn't interest you. How could it? There is nothing
to fill the void. And there is nothing left
to say except I understand if a lover's blood
has been tasted, how do you describe it
years later when all you remember is a sightless man
escaping from some story stranger than one
of Ovid's Tales. When you phoned that Saturday
morning and said this is the very last time I'll hear
your voice, the gut wrenching instinct for tonight
I'm reading about " pinpoint pupilled eyes,
the same demented grimace. His every
movement possessed by the same rabid self."
As my eyes follow the story is interrupted
by the news of your suicide.
Quote taken from Tales from Ovid by Ted Hughes
Comfortably Numb
It's different without a beautiful body floating
amid the water lilies and it's different
without Echo's bones changing into rocks
until there is nothing left except her voice.
It's different but no less difficult
to understand why you couldn't tear
yourself away from narcotics, Valium,
sleeping tablets. How easy is it to forget
your face falling into food I'd prepared
for you. This sedation made it easy
to be insensitive. There were no goodbyes
until two weeks later, you were comfortably
numb under stark white hospital sheets.
I could have asked 'is there anybody there?'
but that would be a waste of breath.
Instead I wished you dead
as darkness disintegrates your drug
fucked permanently damaged brain.
Copyright © Alison Eastley
