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TWO POEMS 



MY SECOND VISION OF TRUE LOVE
AT THE BANK OF A BENDER;    
WASHING AT THE END OF THE NIGHT,
WHICH IS THE NEXT DAY’S AFTERNOON




Sarah FLETCHER









MY SECOND VISION OF TRUE LOVE
AT THE BANK OF A BENDER


I meet you in the stairwell
 
            clutching my little almanac
                        of trembling things

             leaving my mouth                   honey


                °


Metaphor, be gone. It really
was. I despair
the parallel line of logic
                         
(pull my braid).

There was a swan, crying diamonds
in the corner, beak fluffy
with white wine and the excruciating hatred
of its secrets.

There were the house mice, being juggled by
boy-virgins and I felt
that pink, diaphanous bomb
shake the pillars of your boots.

            
                °


Then
there was your thigh snaking mine
in that light room in Clapton    we were
drunk the light
was
filtered through colours of ocean    our bodies
switched      flipping from fish to man
all night       ugliest phosphorous, lit,

Darling you are the template I dream
Of pouring my lips unto

Batter    to    mould      before baking

Here I am with the decision of Dogs:
Come    Stay    Christ

 
                °


‘Unengulfable desire precluding touch’, or, consider:

the inside of your mouth: part
stadium lights, part
praying mantis: consider your eyes,
wrong axes, sinking towards different
symphonies: consider, please: mouth: part me

 
                °


dream of ten thousand guinea pigs
peeking heads through the waves’ troughs
such softness              such wet


                °


That night was like floating but
in reverse

thinking of you between
icicles and monkey bars

each lip bringing the neon-blue
lacework of wings

towards the pressed butterfly of this
elite vacation.

I pour resin over the pirated moment.
I return it to sender,

make a paperweight. There.
There. Perfect.

I (seeping with preclusive love) shall give this creature to
the Cairenes air in which you live,

before we wake to re-fall out of touch,
yes, and yes. O whatever else?






WASHING AT THE END OF THE NIGHT,
WHICH IS THE NEXT DAY’S AFTERNOON


A foot, my own, can be either
collaborator or accessory to a cause,
especially when looming its sole
across the surface of a bath to gauge the heat.

A woman’s foot, when shed from fishnet tights, is a free fish;
a small gesticulator, circling toes to ripple.
This is foreplay to the end of progress...
Hush now; it is entering the whirlpool,

which sucks us to a refracted world.
Entering a garden, where the air writes it all down;
Nymphs, washing; sororal twins
to stiff Greek columns. Gowns as melting candles.

Exhausting to find the universal in this caper.
Psychic hygiene in a restored Venetian arch. 
Temperature is perfect. Water, perfect.
I am empty. I have killed my mother in myself.









Sarah FLETCHER is an American-British writer who is currently researching a PhD on pain and expression in Aberystwyth. Her work has been published in The Poetry Review, Poetry London, The White Review, The Rialto and more. Her fourth pamphlet, CAVIAR, is upcoming with Out-Spoken Press.







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Hotel is a magazine for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. The magazine is bi-annual, the online archive is updated periodically.



     

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