My Favourite Book is the Virgin Suicides29 October 2020
Sometimes I don’t lay naked
beneath the sheets,
and you? Sometimes I drink too
much, and lay naked beneath the sheets and
forgot time Has passed,
my grief fermenting like an old cabbage, growing its
own shrunken heads behind a display case.
Didn’t know you as a kid, but saw you
piss the bed anyway.
Behind the glass Fear is a pigeon
spiked on a metronome An Old hand
conducting over a shallow dish
Over the phone you said you
couldn’t move for hours, the liquid was
our strange and viscous
to Manliness, to the enormous landscape we
of our own bodies.
First time we met you said
knew already, something about how easy I got in cars,
how I could respond to any name and
thinking back to the night the sky
opened its wet mouth and swallowed me,
I heard someone behind the trees whimpering
said, is a tiny milk dispersing on our tongues,
so might we hope
only to rest a while
let our children drink too.
It is true then, that we waited
all summer, in the curled ribcage
of a deer
halfway between your house and mine
practising our smiles.
In the winter we
made love on a pile of burning roses
in my parents garage,
like an American beauty sequel, where all the girls save each other
and all the Dads waste their anger
into walls, into old crockery.
It is true that we did many things, to wait.
Even fell in love ,
in unwanted re-enactment.
Two friends ,
in a toyota in the bushes
with no underwear sucking the old man’s fat
thumb, and kissing each other’s thighs,
the spit trailing like a spider’s webs of
unlearning across our bodies. And when we were done we
loaded the rest of the condoms with the limited cargo of our
mouths, and released them
across the playground