On Seeing a Spanish Lover, 13 Years Later
“We will shadow each other our whole lives” – Rachael Allen
Unsolicited, he sends me a photo.
¿Te parezco gordo? I work out
how much weight a woman can lose
in under a month, and weigh up
if it’s worth starvation. Less amor,
more amortisation. Then I foul a smile
as Princes Street’s clock fist-fucks the hour
and he appears there on the corner. His face
more lined than I remember, kind like linen
drying in the sun, he still looks godly
Spanish, gorgeously incongruous
there, like catching sight of Christmas glitter
silted into a sewer. Arbitrary, the way
the word weed is. Or likewise week. Or we.
The moon hangs back, crabbit bitten cuticle.
As the sun upskirts the sky we catch a taxi
to his flat, that in those few years all those years
ago I was only allowed to imagine. All those times
your place or mine was never even a question.
Pity the pining anglosajona, demanding
full stops follow decimals, not this
non-committal Mediterranean comma.
Thirled thoroughly to the indicative,
shunning the subjunctive as a nuisance of nuance
that does no one any favours.
It takes an extraordinary ontology
to contend with such contradictions.
Like the bronze espaliered Christ
suspended from his neck,
the one he wore non-ironically
that stapled his nipple as he slept.
“I just want your sex.”
I would have laughed if my heart hadn’t stopped
on Princes Street, thirteen years back.
One little text that cut like the blade
of a shoulder, turning away in the dark.
Yet still I kept trying
to lick it licit, his cinnamon villain’s mouth.
Christ what a conformance of performance.
This time again, there will be no farewell
hug: his arms criss-cross
like cutlasses across his chest as I head
for the door, dropped like a torso
into a manhole of memory. In times gone by
I’d have seen in this X
the sign for love in sign language,
a covert kiss, would have bored my best friend
stupid with the insignificance.
As the sun ordains the morning
he dawns on me like a moon.
That will still be there
the next time, whenever
I happen to look. Like the ribbon
of a childhood missal, a little frayed,
like sisal, but still sessile, still no further
past the page it marked. Still
unmoved.
Synastrical cynic, see you
in another ten years’ time.
On Second Thoughts
So what they’re saying is
that double spaces aren’t needed
before full stops. That the eucharist contains gluten
and you’re coeliac. That you can leave the house
without wearing a bra. That it may be acceptable
to give a dog a human name. That it’s now rude
to phone someone without warning. That there exists
a fine line between rude and dead, and you’re meant
to get the difference. That there is in fact
always a precedent. That between fight and flight
there is freeze (though you failed
to put up your hands.) That rings can be returned.
That rings can be refused. That when they asked you
aged four what you wanted to be, you were right
to answer a hermit. That a shingle beach doesn’t
have to disappoint. That rooms always look more inviting
in the mirror. That you should never emigrate
to a land with no word for homesick.
That a lone magpie may be less
unlucky than autistic.
That they never meant
you to take it all so
literally
____
Julie studied Spanish at Glasgow University before moving to Barcelona in 2011. Her
work has been published in literary journals including Lines Review, Poetry Ireland
Review, Poetry Scotland, Mslexia and Dream Catcher. She won the Plaza Audio Poetry
Prize in 2023 and was shortlisted for the Bridport.
These poems were chosen by Anthropocene Guest Editor HLR.
Comentários