You can’t take a bath
In the morning
Says a fuckwit.
I exhale
Swell up from the water, dripping silver
Feel the red scabs
Beneath my hair
Like strawberries
In a muddied patch
To live and walk in steam
My eyesnosemouth smear
Oil in heat
And do nothing
Really nothing
To change my living breathing being
to change the directional pull
bones pulling me downwards
Seeking softness
Or the most down
Of anything ever
Drag me to the
Hot Core
I will find the comfort
There.
The pram-man in the showroom was proud to inform me
That this model ‘can do it all’.
It off-roads easily
Brakes on a dime
And has the largest storage capacity of any brand,
Comparable or otherwise.
‘Great for the shopping!’ he intoned with a humanoid charm.
My eyes were as big as my belly
The adventures we’ll have, I murmured.
We’re not in London anymore
We live in a land of hills, slopes, litigious pavements.
The first time I pushed it – with you – inside
Up the steps to my house
A windowcleaner, idling, watched me
‘That looks like hard work’ he chuckled.
I huffed a grin but
As with anything a woman faces repeatedly
Overtime I developed a party line.
‘Yes it’s good for the biceps!’
Breezily, cheerily, fuck-you-ing on the quiet.
I never pushed it without damp sweat
Gathering like clouds
At my hairline, armpits, my groin.
When I think of our magical adventures
I think of sweat.
And yes, it was good for storage
Especially good for hiding the pre-packed steak that I stole
From a supermarket.
Just to redress the balance
Of being a good and virtuous mother
Who had magical adventures.
I will not do as you tell me
Not heed your suggestions
I will listen to your feedback with the same level of interest
That I reserve for
The waiter telling me the soup
Or nudging me higher up the wine list.
Recommendations. Just a thought.
Your tiny hands beat against my storyteller’s skin
And leave a moment’s imprint
Butterfly kiss
A thumb in dough.
I. Spring. Back.
Please. Don’t stop.
Carry on. Forget about it.
Think again. Retrace your steps.
Reflect. If you must.
Do it here. Do it there.
You are, to me, more immaterial than the most immaterial of things.
Fond regards. Best wishes.
Allthebest.
You can see little beads of powder
In the crevice where her nose meets her face
Fixate on this, bitch! It screams at you
And you think yes
Because that is a warm bath
Not the cold of realising
That people think that the thing that you did in a moment is you altogether, all the time.
Briefly
You’re thinking now
How difficult easy would it be to
Slip off the tuxedo, leap the railing
And drag yourself under
Before they can do it for you.
Taut and brisk
As I was shown
I pull the sheet under
Dream for a
Moment
Will they notice
Appreciate
My hospital corner
And wonder who created it?
All the beds
Are out
Like Orphans
I could tuck
Them in
Switch out
The light
Listen to the whispers
Till they ….
But they are
Not orphans
And I am
No governess
Kindly or
Otherwise
I push the
Bed against
The wall
With my knee
And feel again
My efficiency.
The room is as they requested it
But executed by me.
So-me. So me.
Sharp lines
Crease fold
Crisp
Smooth
Cool
‘Leave a space for us to fill’
Was their only request
With what?
Balloons
Oiled wrestlers
Bunnies
Alcohol
A vomitarium
I look at the carpet
And express my sympathies.
It is not for me
To consider
Until tomorrow.
I go to the
Middle bed
Run my hands
Over the nylon sash
Laying in wait
For the incoming queen
The Bride-to-Be
And tuck a condom beneath its folds.
Feel your feet on the floor
Hear the sounds around you
Of traffic, elliptical bubbles of breath
That is your here, the moment you’re in
And everything is fine if you’re here
But what if
What if even as I’m writing this I feel
Dark thundering violins
And a sci-fi indifference about what
I’m being told
To do.
I like to live in a different here
Hold a here in two hands
Cupped like a marble
Blow discretely
Let it unfold
A different here to floorboards and lorries
One where I own
A fashion house! In Paris!
Wear a crisp white shirt!
Eat the nub of a baguette for lunch,
Make decisions!
Or here is a beach at dawn
And in my here moment
I’m alone
And finally can, really can
Find my quiet
So we breathe together.
But then a truck farts past outside
I see a smear on the window
And it guides me back
To my now here.
Cut down, I swim up
Each limb rising
Till I know the separateness of me
Each part, a butcher’s cow
Labelled, distinct
Wholly beautiful
Each limb rises
Smoke, ether, ash
Climb the stairs through nightime
And if you shift your head to the left
You change from Florence Nightingale to Faerie Ball
Only I push through the velvet.
How often does no-one see?
It’s a waste to slide between electrified sheets
And join the others farting –
Become the unit once more of milk and toothbrush
Each limb rises, caressing its own circle
And I grimace
Not to be interesting
Or ironic
Or cool
Or ‘yeah I think I’ve got that one. On vinyl somewhere.’
If I could scrub myself of expectations
I would – clean. To the bone of each limb rising.
Till then I’ll dance in the dark.
Today my pen is not where it should be
Not chasing over pages of insecurity
The notebook
Has removed itself
From the situation
Of my hands
I laid it down somewhere
While thinking of potato peels, Jane Russell, the plague
It seized its chance,
Soaked into the scenery
So here we are. In a spare unwritten notebook
Leaves left, from 2003
If I believe the page that came before me.
So I triple salchow back to then
When I spent £233 in rent
(a month? a week? In London?)
This punches my brain off-cortex
Sends it spinning down chats recollected.
With older people
The Do You Remembers?, who talk only of when
Fags were two quid
Milk was 10p
A car was shilling
And happiness was free
I look at 2003, at the patterns of words
That came from a woman
Who is WORKING VERY HARD
Trying to find her place in a scene
A woman who I’m very proud to have been.
‘It’s still not real to me’ his mouth said.
His thin shoulders agreed
‘But I know what I saw’.
‘I was out early with the dog –
The sky though felt different today –
Vermillion and toasty
A hushed forest floor.’
He gazed at the fuzzy microphone,
spinning bewilderment.
‘I almost took a photo
But then I thought – forget it
How often do we think that
and then genuinely regret it?’
He mops his brow with the dog.
‘Listen, I”m not a hocus pocus kind of guy
But I trust what I see what I know with my eye
There it was – not a leprechaun or lights in the sky
Over there, twixt the glade and the sty
Was a smart little man in navy suit and tie
Handing out money and saying he’d try
To the poor little folks who were standing by
He listened to a woman, shook his head with a sigh
Said he didn’t know, was sorry, it was wrong, wouldn’t fly
He took out a pen, drew up a plan
The woman beamed, already a fan
He made one call – then it was done
Waved off the woman’s thanks, said he had to run
He liked to go where the press wouldn’t see
And that was when he spotted me
And he vanished – like that – just plain disappeared
Just me, dog and little folk – no one affeared.’
He squinted hard at the lady-with-the-mic.
‘I can see that you’re looking at me with suspicion
But there’s no reward for this – I’m not on commission
And I’ll be met in the pub with a ton of derision
But I’m sure – what I saw – was – an honest politician!’
Gloria said to dig below
So she does, for the millionth time, as she’s told to
The sand there is hot red blood of course but powder
Her mother’s blood perhaps? Old blood? Dried blood?
Thoughts swarm and meander up over, behind the horizon
There is nothing but mother’s blood
She squints towards the sun
and thinks of the crows feet far too late to stop them
The dogs trots off
Returns
With a dead thing?
No
Just green fronds
The last living thing in this godforsaken etcetera
But Gloria said dig down below.
Stefanie Moore 