The lonely heart
of a girl
who liked her own
kind
is not written down in history
there are few
stories of this
quiet, often eclipsed, furtive, secret
kind of longing
less even spoke aloud or transcribed
for what could be said? Admitted?
Instead, there are, no doubt
trees growing exceptionally redolent
nourished with the grieving, private hearts
of girls throughout history
who buried their flesh
beneath tender roots of a sapling
when it became abundantly clear
their tongues served them no purpose
in speaking of a love
no-one wanted.
These girls … I wonder
about them, sometimes as I tramp
red cheeked and furious
up hill side, when sitting still and
desiring felt like cold bars of a jail cell
seeing above me the wielding kite and her
long expanse, mocking almost with her freedom
for fierce she is, unable to
be anything but predator
time lapses into a series of vignettes
childhood (unknowing/confused) adolescence (odd/ill-fitting)
youth (empty bed/scolded faces of young men who do not understand
why no matter what they do, they endear
not)
older (disappointment/scrolled dating sites, dark bars with groping
strangers, you wouldn’t share a car ride with)
a wish always
for the girl over the moors
her long black hair tumbling like a question mark
the iridescence of her eyes, startling, bold
quit of falseness, a truth enveloping us both
without need of pretense, shyness left in fog
to hold the hand of someone who understands
and wishes to pull you through
where magic still resides in ellipsis and mist.
They do not invite single women of a certain age
to celebrate. When everyone would feel
uneasy, no children to talk about
flourishing career to brag of, she is not anything more than
everything to one person, outside that
sphere, she feels lost, disjointed, unable to fit closely
the pieces of irregularity, between her own wishes
and that of everyone else. They stare at her
over coffee cups, watching as if she were
a different species, something odd and inexplicable
cut at irregular angles, spilling out of bondage
saffron infused thoughts, plastered to her wet head
like a seal exploring depths, her stockings uneven
ragged with snares, mimicking internal
conflict, why she couldn’t pose for the camera
lips pursed in obliging, skirt wrinkle free,
hands hidden beneath cardigan, their
eternal fidget repressed with the incalculable
strength of effort it takes women to remind silent
say nothing, speak not with their roaming eyes
the magnificence of their private entreaty.
Oh to reveal, peal off layers, ransack propriety
and launch, full mast, happy crew, into the ocean
where loving was loving anyone, invited equally
to christenings, thanksgiving, birthday’s
not whispered about; behind fans, fingers, computer
screens, the lascivious imagination of mild mannered
disgust, spread liberally on morning toast.
“What do they DO?” (behind closed doors)
“was she like THAT with you?” (you should be so lucky)
“are they man-haters?” (only if you join in the cacophony)
“her mother must be so disappointed” (eternally).
I’m not disappointed
with you, us, swimming upstream, lily pads, green light
breaking up mosaic thought
bring it on
bring it on
we urge in our confident hour, no longer strange in shadow
by fire, by tokens in dark, wagging their tongues
and then, weary, tired of the fight, we stop
holding hands in public, the glare, a sunburn on
our fragile necks we stay modest, interior
house plants straining for sufficient light
when they don’t invite us, when I remain
alone waiting for you, weeks upon weeks
when stigma is a brand without physical body
it stings as deep, stays as long, heals too slow
it is hard to imagine the words ‘equality’
leaving our lips, and joining the world
in red shoes and jaunty hat, tipped merrily
to the left-hand side, running for a bus
knowing you’ll just make it
if the ground isn’t slippery
if you don’t fall before you’ve got
a firm hold.
SHE
She has not answered the door in many years
TheFeatheredSleep 