1. The phase of the moon. Full in perpetuity inside your head,
disturbing your vision from behind,
creating avid ghosts.
Me, caught in tides, no handhold,
every current riding over my tongue,
a deep-water language for one.
2. The snowdrops in the front garden.
You, the monarch of sweet beginnings,
pale with presentiments, failing
and dying in the first strong light.
Me, the Queen of January, lover
of the silent empty street, made
nervous by crowds and heat.
3. The thespian masks on our wall.
You were the thousand-in-one,
going for a glass of water and
returning a complete stranger.
Me, forgetting what was real or scripted,
playing a part, blundering in borrowed limbs,
smiling, crying, ad-libbing, hating it.
4. The crow feathers on my desk.
You liked doves, wanted everything white,
like living in a child's storybook, letting
someone else absorb all the splinters.
Me, a dark star happiest at height,
but having foresworn the breeze
except the one in my dreams. I called
all night, lips never moving at all.
5. The child between us and of us.
The Viking funeral you loaded
your guilt upon, disguised as
kindness, consuming itself brightly.
Me, trying to be sober, trying
to be better than the mother
I had myself, and failing, failing,
until our child needed me most
and I swam out to him, with my real face, and a ticket out of there.
________
Music: Roberta Flack Just Like A Woman
