The Day the Letters Burnt
The day I died I prodded a sunset with a cool poker.
I knocked with a fistful of calmness. Answer.
Open, I walked into your lounge. I heard you
in the kitchen, fill a kettle, guzzle its air.
I sat in your chair, audience of the opposite chair,
a sag in the seat of who last sat on its leather.
I had no wish to fill its mould. I lit a cigarette;
The end fumed and glowed, the ashtray, Pompei.
I cleared my initials in your ash, scoured them out.
The tea tray was a raft. You sat cups on the table,
an eclipse of coffee rings stained the wood,
sets of overlapping Russian wedding bands.
I sat, easy, my smile was a tail pinned to a donkey;
you thought you put it there. Blind. You returned
to the kitchen for awfully trivial snacks. I strolled
around the room, our museum, I appointed you to life
as my curator, reading over the lines of my mouth.
I kissed the cold bust of a dead composer, hard.
Red for you to find on a cheek later, my lips
on marble stamped an undelivered letter.
You put down a polka dot plate, a crescent of cookies.
And I drained my cup and looked at my watch;
its glass eye clocked me back. I walked into the hall.
We did no dance now, sorry steps, a coy side to side
around how neither of us knew how to say goodbye.
I didn’t hang on the hook your gaze, a coat in wait
for arms to fill me, bend me into the shape of a girl.
But, for an instant, I felt my spine, dominoes,
if you stood too close ,vertebrae tipped by breath,
a word knocking my resolve down. I recalled my scarf,
left on the chair-arm, a ribbon of poppies
gift-wrapped where I last sat. I didn’t go back.
Light as a woman late for the theatre, I stepped out
towards courting night, a suede glove at the door.
Outside, our breath surprised us, ghosts dressing up
in each other’s clothes. Everything was smoke,
bonfires, a neighbour was burning his papers.
I spread my fingers, ash landed like snowflakes,
all our letters, kisses, no two quite the same.
I almost felt sorry for you watching me drive away.
On the step of the house, I saw a boy locked out, a loser
of a game only time may let you know we ever played.
Angela Readman © 2012