Jammed up warm against my thigh
Him, solid, not going anywhere
He seems to know the damage
A wrong word can do
He chooses with care his
Or, says little at all
His silence says nothing significant
His uncomplicated presence soothes
Me
But *see title
I close my eyes and
Leaning back
I listen
—Hey, Frank’s on the phone!
-Frank who?
—Frank O’Phile. The Irish fellow who drinks like a fish and digs French chicks
-Does he speak the lingo?
—Like a native, yes
-Lucky bastard. What does he want?
—Wait a mot. I can’t understand his accent. He’s asking for: du pain, du beurre and du Bousin ….wtf!….. ‘scuse my French, mate
-Do what? What ‘s he on about?
—I think he thinks we’re a restaurant.
-He’s probably been on the whisky again. Hang up
She’s unpinned as an itch of wild
without a stitch, she tumbles in
she’s become to thin, too sculptural
to capture in shifting brilliances
She came in on that
light, soft of night with
a moon caught like fruit in her teeth
She came in tasting of tangerines
and midnight oranges drenched her breath
sounding like rain or winter thaws
She came in on a
steady lash, a summer down pour
steeped in sky-dipped juices, the colours of bruises
She came in on that
tide, alive with stings of wasps, her
raspberry rich perfume invades the room
I came too
snow breath rests soft on
grass and bush like cotton wool
blankets; sun will lift
Lose what needs to be lost
the cost is too great to keep
shit, on a stick
even if it smells pretty pretty
slick, life is not about events and circumstances
that trap you, that trip you
but how you chose to respond to those same sames
you see what you already hold
change what you hold
change your glasses, wipe the lens
let go, let up
everything changes, look
to the present
not through the lenses of the past that shadows
shift and warp
the future is brighter magic magic
sharp as breath
the past is lost
cause
this is where you
you were
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 