FROM REBECCA IN LONDON
John Grey
Your letters wish for more mystery.
You get pregnant in a foreign land
as if an unwanted child could
ground you to that place.
as if any stranger who stops an
smiles at you could be the father.
You earn a little money dancing
in Soho clubs, exploring the
antique stores in the afternoon.
How unpressured, the beauty of old
things, you add.
You dance on tables.
Topless, you whisper in a short
capital-less sentence.
I can sense the hushed breath of
one fat shadow of men buffing
your breasts and your hatred
struggling to make a grin.
We have always been audience.
Your picture sits on my desk like
plane tickets to some exotic place
I never use.
Your eyes are opened wide in this
small framed glossy. You are in
danger of falling out of them.
You don’t have to tell me. I remember
the joy of meeting
the perfect beautiful woman
and then, having done that,
moving onto someone else,
how sometimes it was easier
and better to write about it
then wonder who would steal you.
You say that is the way. You silence
rooms for a while but then
we all slip next door,
hungry for the noise.
There is an abortion and an absurd
silence you fill with a story
about a picnic on the grounds
of a big, empty castle.
You say that, knowing nothing was
inside, you still peeked in.
