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C
afternoon shadows bisect
evening shadows.
flowers unfurl tired claws,
dripping from their vase,
sliding onto my carpet.
a fly meanders,
a bloated silhouette
cleaving the limbs of the coat tree
then dissolving in the eye
of the smoke alarm by my door.
i imagine if it ever came back,
the breeze would feel like paper,
cutting the edges
of my cheeks,
healthy and living,
not like the sun’s lazy yolk—
a broken-off thought hovers.
blowflies carve shadows as i wait
inside my body, inside my
bed, with no bones with which to catch—
i trace shadows as he waits,
the cypress-shaped, mint-green stranger
in the corner, buck naked,
barring a pair of spectacles
and a dust-ridden bowler hat.
when the sun falls,
news and numbers unfold
and open into a raw wound.
i curse the cyclopean smoke alarm,
curse the hatter, straight, striped
in streetlight. the fabric of moonlight
welds to my skin in triangles, illuminates
a growth of ferns and spindly tree trunks.
it floats over a nest in the canopy,
a quaver of an eye behind the peephole.
the stranger stands guard, whistling
a sea shanty. a stray blowfly perches
at the centre of his nose,
spreading chimes like cracked glass.
welts bloom into maps
of old worlds, spent
eyes of old friends stirring—
he swats the fly, shifts his feet and chuckles.
‘would you like your shoes ironed, ma’am?
they’ll be expecting you soon.’
he takes my hand, oversees my ascent
to the circular trapdoor in the ceiling.
something glitters deep
in the wells of his irises.
sleep settles on my cranium,
my shoulder blades and shins.
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L
But never a sea shanty come butler,
Serving with forte, at Bondeau-on-Shore.
Chip off the old drifted wood
But they loved his manners, all four.
No questions, stoic,
I’ll put my flower stains there.
White nubs, ear to ear,
This’ll be my suit and tie
Specs always straight,
Here, the breeze will confide.
Zest, always cinnamon, egg on toast and blowfly, Shadows from your hoodie, dear Jerry!
He tells me this only when I ask him,
Usually in the underpants rush
To the living room computer,
Sometimes when the candle is burning
Dressed still but he doesn’t sleep just stares.
Bondeau-on-Shore,
In the woods there ‘cross Hemnes!
Past scratched in days
Soles hollowed, new landlubber.
A still butler,
Still my best friend.
Still as the evening ocean
Says my shoes need ironing,
Need to shine my hats.
Jerry floats, is stargazing.
On his cot, under the room
But I wish he’d sweep more,
Taxing, really,
For holding coats and making comments.
Used to scrub
Not even grime nor dirt but bad manners,
Huffy gestures,
Scrubbed hard.
But the guests still growl.
He likes it quiet
but every time I close my door
Vibrations make him chime in C minor—
My least favourite key.
At Bondeau-on-Shore, the bells would ring in C minor, and the masters,
Moustachioed and perfulorous,
would ding and tell
If the learners were yet welded.
It’s weird,
He even hangs around during sex,
Embarrassingly watchingnotwatching in the
Corner seas breaking levies cracking
She doesn’t notice.
Jerry hands her my dressing gown.
Thank you, Jerry.
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