My partner and I were in a dance class, or contact improv.
I was fumbling, moving through treacle and sawdust
Her lover swept in with dramatic panache
She gushed and swung the beam of her light towards him.
I was left to desperate dark
With sluts who bent over and hoisted up
Polka-dot dresses.
I rutted like a dog, mechanically, emptying.
I woke upset, sat up and sent an email to my ex
Who had had the best sex
But couldn’t hold me.
I dressed and left my love in bed
To be soothed by the dawn chorus
Of raucous peacock pests
And the rest of these feathered friends
All singing their own pointless, aching beauty.
Natures chorus noisily narrating a plot
That they forgot to craft into a Greek tragedy.
The birds all see the end and nod their heads,
If I could break this fourth wall and hear them.
I add my own shrill cry to the symphony
Sitting under a pine tree
Glazing the sky pink.
And all the days in recent months
I’ve been too content to leave bed
And seek the sad spaces
Where minds can whir down to a soft patter,
Hearts can empty and refill with clean water,
This is where the kernel sits
What a waste contentment is.
I pick flowers and reflect
On male entitlement
And respect,
On which wolf to feed thoughts to
Between the foxhound
Loyal, loving, simple joy at the living,
silk-furred inviting,
And the alpha, loner,
Boney, hard edges where facts stick out
And a pelt that claims the word truth
Like a jealous child barks, ‘Mine!’
Flowers help,
This is one of a handful of times
I’ve ever even looked at them,
Really looked and seen
What they are doing
With their giving
As I take them and wrap them in a tiny bouquet
To bring back to her in bed.
Joe Blogs, 2020
Image by Victoria Borodinova