The New House - Poem by rebecca palmer
The new house smells a little.
a blocked drain,
old coffee grounds,
musty washing and white spirit.
It’s all unsettled, everything’s in boxes
Or piles all over the floor,
As are we.
It’s been a long day and our
Voices are lying low.
Between us stretch short shadows
And the remains of our carpet picnic
Four leaky night-lights scattered on cardboard.
This one bedroom flat is enormous
Because we’re in it alone and the
Knowledge has thrown us into fear
that shifts between sacred and scared.
Has made our gaze looser, less sure
The longer I look at you tonight the less
I break away and stare into soapy water
here nothing is clear with good reason,
I can splash rather than scream.
In my bed he waits for me to turn into him
Arse to lap, the hair lifted from my neck,
his lips pressed to the topknot of my spine.
Our knees hooked close we lose the day
Fit it together in sleep.
In sleep, in sleep so brief, day drags us awake
To an un-tangling, our thieving limbs lie
Eye to eye, lipping each other lazily.
I tongue tip the corner of his mouth
His teeth sink into my fingers,
And he opens me up like a starfish
Fucks me face down in a pact to pleasure.
My body never one to miss a mythology
Plays its pagan part, as I move blood
coarses over the covers and
I run clutching the trails smearing over my thighs
I come quietly back, washed and find you
Four square naked
Scrubbing the blood from my sheets
In this still, half woken moment, I see you,
And I love you differently over again.
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