by St. James

 

If you ask me I will lie

There was no
algorithm
to us. I
hate that
I cannot know
the quickest
route
to
your
heart.

If I did –

No.
Enough.

Vapid calculations.

Imagined
vibrations,
tremors.
Regrets.

Enough.

But I
haven’t, not yet,
let me

linger,
in the electrical fibres,
siphoned shadows
speeding down the router
mapping which way to
hurt me
the most.

For I am the
host
of connections,
of what ifs
with slicker slumped sagacity
than Mrs Dalloway
chose the flowers
for the finest soiree.

Clip the heads.

Stop the dahlias from dancing.

Silence me with shears.

Preen me clean.
Someone new
someone who doesn’t
remember remember remember
pick
that November night,
pluck it clean, outright,
prune it free, let it
float, in the water, in the bowl;
eviscerate
the memory of
black sliced smiles
black holes
and beguile longing with –

enough
fine
always just
fine.
It’s all just

fine.

 

***

 

The seasons speak; sometimes I listen

the first one,
the one who made me
melted;
dripped dazzle into
another
double helix heaven
Host.
How most do,
eventually.

But then the universe
gave me two
wonderful
blister bound bodies,
beauties
to shoulder the
ache.

Not a year passed before
they had
both
gone,
had both
handed me
back
to the forget me
nots
that climb my window frame.
Two departers.
Non-starters.
And a death.

And
whilst my tears
fed the twines, the spines
of an afternoon’s lilac mist,
I noticed
they had bloomed
again.
As they always will.
If they insist.

I sprinkle them with
bitter black dust of
us, us, us
knowing it is not
me
that will make them
burst, blossom, bloom and grow
or –

who knows.

There is always a season
for these things.
For the heart to bring
sorrow
and then –
new life.

 


St. James | @stjamesundays

St. James is a writer, actress and Buffy and Austen aficionado. She has a Sunday column @NEstablishment and can be found at @stjamesundays.

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