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A snake-skin print, silk-lined and ankle length; it shimmies on the hanger out of reach of her right hand and purse. Bright blood runs hot along her left arm in a counterplot. Three credit cards are burning and with each she could set fire to Ilium’s ancient strength.
She’d launch a thousand ships in viscose, cut close to her moulded shoulders, serpent hips. Inside the changing room, she hears the beat of hearts and drums as minds are in retreat. She angles in the mirror; yet her lips part for a moment, breathe one cool word: ‘but’.
Someone will pay for this great surge of lust, this rush of heat, this trembling to possess. She can’t afford to sign, but she’s for sale. Will armies fight for her? Her face is pale as she slips out with that too-costly dress. Someone will pay, not her, but someone must.
Perhaps the wind has wiped away their prints, their heel-marks from the sand – and in the air above the coast of St. Lucia, hints of feathered spaces flicker here, there, there.
Gulls or white sanderlings could trick an eye too willing to believe. That emptiness within the heart, transferred to earth or sky demands a seraph, sends an S.O.S.
An island is an Eden but the snake wriggles inside a green, aspiring mind: a little hiss of worlds elsewhere can make or break you: “Leave that paradise behind!”
You too have feet to stay and wings to go, apples to eat. As you stand on the cliff, look seawards, angel; only men are slow at taking off, weighted by ‘but’ and ‘if’.
Beneath our floorboards, biros, paperclips, a picnic spoon, still dirty, lie in wait. A rabble of lost plastic sulks: one day they’ll get together, rise and infiltrate our ordered rooms, our neat relationships.
And so will little words we’ve dropped, the blips in half-forgotten discourses: ‘I hate …’ ‘you are too …’ ‘never’, now in disarray, could plan an ambush, charge and liberate your head and mine from laundered pillowslips.
Yesterday the world was double and enveloped in a mist Like the fog of a pea-souper in November, And whom I’d met and what I’d said and whom I’d hugged and kissed Were lost forever. I could not remember Arriving home, crawling upstairs or falling into bed, (The aftermath is time for second-guessing) And, because of mini-armies waging war inside my head I spent a doleful morning convalescing.
The afternoon was better: I had tea and buttered toast And thought of you (my faculties were clearing): Handsome, lean, a perfect gentleman, always the thoughtful host But with little human touches - so endearing! By evening I was wretched: what must you have made of me Lurching round your room unsteadily, a danger To life and limb and peace of mind, a cannon loose at sea, Telling not-so-funny jokes to any stranger?
This morning is White Monday: everything is crystal bright Except for me - I’m gloomy with repentance. I’ll email you or perhaps text or maybe even write: Please don’t judge me with a distant prison sentence. I’ll be different in the future: I'll give up the demon drink, My behaviour will be lady-like and sober. But call me back before I change to tell me what you think. I could start next month - or wait until October.
Do nothing in a hurry was my mother’s sound advice, And, after all, some skittishness is charming. A triple gin - much later - would be really rather nice, When I’m merry I am thoroughly disarming. Your next-best friend, I recollect, laughed loudly at one pun And said he found staid women somewhat boring. As I danced and flirted madly, he declared that I was fun. Better wake him up now. I can hear him snoring.
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