New Poem : Weekend (Rough First Draft)

Weekend

Saturday

I kiss the dent above your hipbone,
while you chew noiselessly on a warm
cinnamon roll, and entwine your toes
in the scruffy strings of the rag rug you made
in college half a dozen years ago.

The fire is empty.
It hasn’t been lit in months.
It’s been warm outside for hours,
and we’ve moved around the house,
sprawling like felines wherever
the sun has paused to gather itself.

We’ve separated the Guardian.
You’re underlining things in the Family section,
and cutting out recipes with tiny sewing kit scissors.

Morning slips soundlessly into afternoon.
We have sex for lunch. Today has no agenda.
It’s a beautiful milky daydream. Maybe later
we’ll wander outside, harvest the bramble bushes.

Maybe you’ll want to escape to the sea
for a few hours, and we’ll follow the scent
of saltwater to the shore.

Sunday

The Doctor calls before the birds.
We spent the night knotted on the living room floor.

He wants you in. There’s something
he needs to tell you.

You look at me, your eyes
blue anguish.

I make tea. I leave the teabag
in your cup for six minutes.
You like it carbon strong.

I leave the milk out on the side,
lid off. Putting it away seems
so inconsequential.

‘It’ll be fine’ I say, forty five minutes
after I should have first said it.

You say nothing.

I imagine that you imagine
that if you don’t talk about something
it won’t be true.

I put on my coat.
The sun is showy today, but I’m cold.

There’s sand in my pockets from the
trip to the beach last weekend, where
we skinny dipped in broad daylight

I don’t know if he’s going to tell me
your heartbeat is an accident, that I’ve
had you longer than I ought to have had you.

The room the Doctor is waiting in
is warmer than the rest of the hospital.
It’s spotless, with full headed flowers
in minimalistic vases.

The news is dire and we both take it
with hermit like silences.

You were born in the 90’s. This shouldn’t
happen to anyone who was too young
to be sad when Kurt Cobain
committed suicide.

I think of fat agendas and needles
as thick as pythons.

I think of bruises bulging like raspberries,
and your soft belly becoming hard and taught.

I carry you into the house, my shipment
of trust and love. Your nails dig into my arms
making tense graffiti.

If there was a witch in the village
I’d tell her to transfer the curse.

It’s poetic, really, how badly things have become.

I take you into the bedroom.
The bed is a mountain of clothes
we’ve put off putting away.
I push them onto the floor,
put you under the covers.

I get in with you. Get up again at 3am.
I put the clothes away, push thick clots
of soured milk down the sink.

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