Friday, 14 February 2014

For Martyr Valentinus (or even Lupercalia…)


I knew she wasn’t home
When the cat came to greet me
Cuddled up on the window’s ledge
And hungry for his love
He knows my returning tones
No-one had been there to keep him warm
And he pounces to the door
To welcome and to beg me

I knew her for some short time
Before I presented her
With a parcel of myself
Gilt-wrapped and silk-tied
Many hours had been used in preparation
Of that second skin
And with a lightness of touch
And tenderness of intuition
She undid my heart
And unveiled the reality of self
I know not what mysteries she uses
In her companionship of me
But I know the missingness of her
Is impossible to bear

I knew she wasn’t home
The curtains too were parted
And the milk lay idle on the step
Where the cat cries for love
So I lifted the bottles
Closed the door and gave him warmth
And switched the television on
For false comradeship

We knew each other longer
The intricacies perhaps now too easy
Our parcels so emptied
That we cannot further rip the paper
Of our selves
But still the missingness
Is perhaps the thing that excites us
With no missingness
Will those selves find stagnant love?

I knew she wasn’t home
The dishes still need washing
And the home still lacks the willingness
I knew she wasn’t home
because I’ve waited there for too long
And she didn’t come down
And the bed was cool

PS: I told the cat

I told the cat it was called loving
This warming stroking snuggling thing
He nuzzled my hand and padded my lap
And fell curling asleep

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