The poet addresses an occasional lover
on a brief assignation in a twin-bedded room
Dearest, since we can do no other,
Here on the bed that fate decrees
Let us lie side by side together,
Heads and shoulders, hips and knees
Aligned along a central fissure
Like pages in a paperback;
Conjoined by heat and sticky pressure,
Divided by a constant crack.
And thus, though circumstance divide,
We lie together, if bereft,
Like vellum swelling either side
Of this, our necessary cleft.
So let us live, and let us love,
Proximity is written in
Although we may not always have
The bliss of lying skin to skin.
So let us love, and let us live
As we are simply bound to do;
Our numbers are consecutive,
Our sense and syntax follow through.
If anyone should ever look
We two will be forever found,
Pages in one another’s book;
Not stitched, my love, but perfect bound.
Ann Drysdale writes: “An occasional poem born during a long and lovely relationship. The publishing metaphor pleases me; it grew wings as I crafted the poem which, for once, said everything I wanted to say.”
Ann Drysdale now lives in South Wales and has been a hill farmer, water-gypsy, newspaper columnist and single parent – not necessarily in that order. Her poems have been published in several of the Potcake Chapbooks. Her seventh volume of poetry, Vanitas, has recently joined a mixed list of published writing, including memoir, essays and a gonzo guidebook to the City of Newport.
Reads and feels like a perfect poem to me.
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