Out of the Blue (17 page)

Its big red body ungulps

from the bowl in the fridge

with a fat shiver.

Glazed

with yellow beading of grease

the soup melts from the edge,

yesterday’s beetroot

turns the texture of tongues

rolling their perfect ovals

out of the silt at the bottom.

Like duck breast-feathers, the dumplings

wisp to the surface, curl

as the soup brightens

just off the boil.

There’ll be pearl onions

– two to a mouthful –

white butter,

then later

plums

piled in a bucket

under the table

thatched with dull leaves

and a black

webbing of twig

over their round

sleep.

When the soup’s done

yellow

constellations

burst on its skin,

bread goes to work

wiping and sopping

the star-scum

set in a slick

on the base of the pot –

chicken fat.

Where the great ship sank I am,

where cathedrals of ice breathe through me

down naves of cold

I tread and roll,

where the light goes

and the pressure weighs

in the rotten caves of an iceberg’s side

I glide,

I am mute, not breathing,

my shoulders hunched to the stream

with the whales, drowsing.

Bells rang in my blood

as I went down

purling, heart over heel

through the nonchalant

fish-clad ocean –

her inquisitive kiss

slowed me to this

great cartwheel.

Down I go, tied to my rope.

I have my diving reflex to sister me,

and the blubbery sea cow

nods, knowing me.

There is blood in my veins

too thick for panic,

there is a down

so deep a whale

thins to a sheet of paper

and here I hang.

I will not drown. 

Two miles or so beyond

the grey flank of the farm

and the wall of gravestones

the oncoming rain

put an edge on the mountains,

they were blue and sure

as the blade of a pocket knife

whizzed to a razor traverse

cutting the first

joint of my thumb –

It was stitched, not bleeding,

the dark threads in the sea were weeds

and my son was packing them

between the stones of his dam.

He was holding back the river

while the mountain punctured clouds

to hold back rain

no farther off than we’d cycled

bumping towards our swim.

In the grey purse of Balnacarry

there were red pebbles and smooth pebbles

and the close grain of the water,

the men were absent –

one walking in the woods

one fishing off the rocks –

the child behind me built up his dam

through which the downpour would blossom

in the sea at Balnacarry –

it was cold, but not lonely

as I stripped and swam.

Boys on the top board

too high to catch.

Noon is painting them out.

Where the willow swans

on the quarry edge

they tan and sweat

in the place of divers

with covered nipples –

Olympians,

that was the way of it.

Boys in the breeze

on the top board

where the willow burns

golden and green

on feet grappling –

boys fooling

shoulder to shoulder,

light shaking.

The lake’s in shadow,

the day’s cooling,

time to come down –

they stub their heels on the sun

then pike-dive

out of its palm.

Sylvette scrubbing,

arms of a woman

marbled with muscle

swabbing the sill,

tiny red grains

like suck kisses

on Sylvette’s skin,

Sylvette’s wrists

in and out of the water

as often as otters.

She grips that pig of a brush

squirts bristle

makes the soap crawl then

wipes it all up.

Father,

I remember when you left us.

I knew all along

it was going to happen.

You gave me bread but wouldn’t look at me

and Hansel couldn’t believe it

because you were his hero,

but I loved you and knew

when you stroked my hair you were bound to leave us.

It was Hansel who crumbled the bread

while I skipped at your side and pretended

to prattle questions and guess nothing.

Father,

did you drive home quickly or slowly,

thinking of your second family

waiting to grab your legs with shrieks of ‘
Daddy!
’

and of your new wife’s face, smoothing

now she sees you’re alone?

Father,

we love it here in the forest.

Hansel’s got over it. I’ve learned to fish

and shoot rabbits with home-made arrows.

We’ve even built ourselves a house

where the wolves can’t get us.

But wolves don’t frighten us much

even when they howl in the dark.

With wolves, you know where you are.

This is what I want –

to be back again

with the night to come –

slipper-bags across our saddles

how fast we rode

and all for nothing.

Your lips on his lips

your hand in his hand

as you went from the dance.

We heard Mass at dawn,

When I knelt for communion

it was the hem of your white dress

I felt in my mouth,

it was your lips moving.

This is all I want

to be there again

with the night to come –

meet me where the fire

lights the bayou

watch my sweat shine

as I play for you.

It is for you I play

my voice leaping the flames,

if you don’t come

I am nothing.

If I wanted totems, in place of the poles

slung up by barbers, in place of the clutter

of knife-eyed kids playing with tops and whips,

and boys in cut-down men’s trousers

swaggering into camera,

I’d have skips.

First, red and white bollards

to mark the road-space they need.

A young couple in stained workwear

– both clearly solicitors –

act tough with the driver, who’s late.

The yellow god with its clangorous emptiness

sways on the chains.

The young man keeps shouting
BACK A LITTLE!

as the skip rides above his BMW.

The driver, vengeful, drops it askew.

Next, the night is alive with neighbours

bearing their gifts, propitiations

and household gods – a single-tub washing-machine,

a cat-pissed rug, two televisions.

Soundless as puppets, they lower them

baffled in newspaper, then score

a dumbshow goal-dance to the corner. 

Washed silk jacket by Mesa

in cream or taupe, to order,

split skirt in lime

from a selection at Cardoon,

£
84.99,

lycra and silk body, model’s own,

calf-skin belt by Bondage,
£
73.99,

tights from a range at Pins,

deck-shoes, white, black or strawberry,

all from Yoo Hoo,

baby’s cotton trousers and braces

both at Workaday

£
96.00; see list for stockists.

Photographs by André McNair,

styled by Lee LeMoin,

make-up by Suze Fernando at Face the Future,

hair by Joaquim for Plumes.

Models: Max and Claudie.

Location: St James Street Washeteria

(courtesy of Route Real America

and the Cape Regis Hotel),

baby, model’s own,

lighting by Sol,

time by Accurist.

The silent man in Waterstones

LOVE
on one set of knuckles

HATE
on the other

JESUS
between his eyes

drives his bristling blue skull

into the shelves,

thuds on
CRIME/FANTASY

shivers a stand of Virago Classics

head-butts Dante.

The silent man in Waterstones

looks for a bargain.

Tattered in flapping parka

white eyes wheeling

he catches

light on his bloody earlobes

and on the bull-ring

he wears through his nose.

The silent man in Waterstones

raps for attention.

He has got Virgil by the ears:

primus ego in patriam mecum
…

He’ll lead the Muse to a rat-pissed underpass

teach her to beg

on a carpet of cardboard

and carrier bags.

This is the wardrobe mistress, touching

her wooden wardrobe. Here is her smokey

cross of chrysanthemums

skewed by the font.

They have put you in this quietness

left you here for the night.

Your coffin is like a locker

of mended ballet shoes.

You always looked in the toes.

There was blood in them, rusty

as leaves, blood from ballerinas.

Tonight it is All Souls

but you’ll stop here quietly,

only the living have gone to the cemetery

candles in their hands

to be blown about under the Leylandii.

In your wooden wardrobe, you’re used to waiting.

You know these sounds to the bone:

they are showing people to their seats

tying costumes at the back.

Everything they say is muffled,

the way it is backstage.

A stagehand pushes your castors

so you glide forward.

You know Manon is leaning

on points against a flat,

nervously flexing

her strong, injured feet,

you’re in position too, arms crossed,

touching your bud of wood.

You needn’t dance, it’s enough

to do what you always did.

That was the second bell. You feel it

tang through the crush. The wind

pours on like music

drying everyone’s lips,

they’re coming, your dancers.

You hate the moment of hush.

There. The quick luck-words

knocking on wood.

When you've got the plan of your life

matched to the time it will take

but you just want to press
SHIFT/BREAK

and print over and over

this is not what I was after

this is not what I was after
,

when you've finally stripped out the house

with its iron-cold fireplace,

its mouldings, its mortgage,

its single-skin walls

but you want to write in the plaster

‘
This is not what I was after
,'

when you've got the rainbow-clad baby

in his state-of-the-art pushchair

but he arches his back at you

and pulps his Activity Centre

and you just want to whisper

‘
This is not what I was after
,'

when the vacuum seethes and whines in the lounge

and the waste-disposal unit blows,

when tenners settle in your account

like snow hitting a stove,

when you get a chat from your spouse

about marriage and personal growth,

when a wino comes to sleep in your porch

on your Citizen's Charter

and you know a hostel's opening soon

but your headache's closer

and you really just want to torch

the bundle of rags and newspaper

and you'll say to the newspaper

‘
This is not what we were after
,

this is not what we were after
.'