Howard Firkin
Her eyes:
You might convincingly look elsewhere
but they drag you back
and drag the puddle depths you stir and muddy
and find you, flapping and gasping.
Her hair:
You might see your first sunset
she colours it a red
perhaps recalling clouds of red-brown kelp
until your eyes dry out of focus.
Her mouth, her teeth, her smile:
You might remember wild games
played in schools,
the never-known companions, images
that flash in silver, disappearing.
Her hands:
You might enjoy their dry touch
knocking you breathless
and slitting you in one move, arse to gills,
scraping your backbone clean.
Her memory:
You might remember sunset now
and hearing first waves,
the mooring chain, the slap against the buoy,
the thought you might be drowning.
You might convincingly look elsewhere
but they drag you back
and drag the puddle depths you stir and muddy
and find you, flapping and gasping.
Her hair:
You might see your first sunset
she colours it a red
perhaps recalling clouds of red-brown kelp
until your eyes dry out of focus.
Her mouth, her teeth, her smile:
You might remember wild games
played in schools,
the never-known companions, images
that flash in silver, disappearing.
Her hands:
You might enjoy their dry touch
knocking you breathless
and slitting you in one move, arse to gills,
scraping your backbone clean.
Her memory:
You might remember sunset now
and hearing first waves,
the mooring chain, the slap against the buoy,
the thought you might be drowning.
