Lachrymose Nesting

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.

WOLOP.dec

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Comments

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winston plowes

Sat 26th Dec 2009 13:24

This one for me is full of sorrow and loss. Missing people, lost moments, half forgotten dreams searching for a home.

the wooden breath of the ashes left
in the vestments of an empty room, alone, but
chipped with Rooks and Queens

was particularly strong for me. Maybe this one should be ain a book of some sort ;-)

Win x

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Ann Foxglove

Sat 26th Dec 2009 12:29

I'm sorry this poem hasn't had any comments yet (time of year I suspect, everyone's been busy). I hope it gets read. It is so concentrated, dense and thick with images and meanings that it is not the sort of poem that instantly appeals to me as a rule, but I've reread it a few times and I think it's a wonderful poem!

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