I am an amputee, a vortex. A lampshade frayed
like the hems of the eunuch soldiers, the powdered women
who took war to work and made a holiday of men.
Retund rouge mistakes? Perhaps not. No. No I am not one of them.
But my limbs ache with stretching
and I sometimes wish to be a tail, a thick wardrobe
to curl his spine up into mine; a soft grey to douse
that hinted house of pain that flinched
like a thorn wrapped up in the parcel of his body.
I am a rocking chair; I lean to learn
the wooden breath of the ashes left
in the vestments of an empty room, alone, but
chipped with Rooks and Queens
fending that square. Where is he?
I am a hedge too, it is true; rolls of isotopes, we are, in prickly heat
but nevertheless, the favourite lover's hunting ground is in sleep
and he is not here
and so neither am I.
I sit singeing my eyes cutting shallots,
waiting for my Mister Schrodinger to see that there is no poison,
there is no box,
just the little stubborn me,
welcoming in the labyrinth and the home we long so much for in the abyss, tapestry of wit
and a pain in the ass, I know, but tenderly combing you in with my arm,
my squirrel's tail and sleeping away all tears.