‘It’s not really poetry, but it’s pretty,’ he said.
As he raises his voice, she lowers her head.
‘It makes my heart heavy, you’re lonely, I think.
Oh, Rose, you’re sad, I suppose.’
‘Look in her bed and she’s bound to be sleeping.
She’s lying there dead. – No, she’s breathing.’
Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes,
your languorous hum, that tone of surprise
I’ve heard energy in adversity.
Your smile: the soul of witchery.
You’re not running away,
You’re not running – are you?
Lyrically longing, she’s tearing the words from the page.
She’s fearfully seething.
‘Bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen.
– You don’t know what I need.’
‘Look in my bed and I’m bound to be sleeping,
I’m lying there dead, but I’m breathing.
And I’m barely balancing as it is,
And I don’t want to drown in my dreams
Bring me wild plums and agrimony
I bet you don’t even know what that means.’
Furious Rose with your opiate eyes,
Your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.
I’ve heard energy in adversity.
Your smile: the soul of witchery.
You’re not running away,
you’re not running – are you?
Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.
She’s terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.
