I’m very English sometimes,
apologising
to the stranger staggering by,
shoulder swung into mine,
sorry caught in the air
with the dust cloud he trails.
So I’ll repeat
in case repetition makes up
for distance,
for an inability to find fire
until much later on
when I am a city or more
away
and still thinking about bone
and muscle
and a sharp snap of ‘move
now!’
No please.
Image by Grae Dickason from Pixabay
Some days I don’t need a husband
I need scaffolding.
So I can tend to the broken,
the busted windows
the cracking paint,
the guttering that doesn’t drain
when the rain comes in
and all the sediment
circling the drain
but never quite clearing.
Some days I need that from you,
and nothing more.
In some cases, the letter won’t translate.
Specified language is always a little tricky,
not like asking
for directions to the swimming pool,
or how much for the loaf of bread
behind the counter.
You craft an art-form of assumptions.
Cut loose the odd words,
ones which clearly don’t fit
in the rigid confines of business,
ones surely not meant.
Leave a framework of mundane.
Puzzle a meaning from the scraps,
a rhythm for the found poem
butchered out of miscommunication.
Send a response in English,
cringe a little for the recipient,
know they will likely do as you
and turn to an app,
a browser tab,
punch in the words,
frown at the nonsense.
Does it count as taking your time,
pausing between each item
fingers on clasps,
heartbeat a tempo dancing
beneath the skin
in a skip, skip rhythm
I felt against my breastbone.
Slid my foot along the seat
of a chair like the one I sat in,
bare skin cold
against the plastic.
Counted the buttons,
two,
four,
six,
stopped
when they ran out
and fabric hung loose
from my shoulders.
Open.
Parted my thighs the same,
slow,
or maybe fast,
the motion of it blurred
in memory
distracted by your face
close to mine.
Open
mouthed.
Kissed you,
slowly.
Open legs.
I won’t say what we did
next.
There is a collective
misguided
assumption,
that we know the words.
Singing like rusted taps,
gargling and spluttering
our way to the chorus
where enthusiasm trumps
experience,
and pipes swell and burst
so all is noise
and furious revelry.
The wave of it crests
breaks,
washes us along
to the next line.
As real as the misting
of our breaths
as we sing.
The cold is not felt
in the thick of it.
Carol J Forrester 
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