MAYFLY
Morning, kitchen, 9am
Tea the only thing to stir
Dry lips that once enclasped
Sealed tight, sour minds whir.
She glances at his holey sleeves
Dip into his toast and beans
Sleeves she once did steal, inhale,
Hide from him so she could hold them near,
Souvenirs to dream over when he weren’t here,
Now they make her quite unwell.
Her wrists can hardly bear the teacup
Hard shoulders hunched, neck long since freed up.
Those shoulders he’d trace with smooth, generous fingers
Whole hand tingling, euphoric sting that lingers,
In this cold, mean morning light he can’t recall
How he found those bones sumptuous
Wasn’t she once was soft, warm, luscious, raw?
Her carnal tides engulfing him, overflowing, superfluous.
Now as she wades her spoon through creamless, weakened tea
She’s just the fleshless, frosty cadaver of the girl that set him free.
And she glares at the spilled Heinz
He’s left dripping on clean laundry
There’s no residue of happy times
He’s churlish, she’s childish, they’re angry.
Who was that mayfly that bit and made her dizzy?
Skated across her brains
Glowed her face up like Christmas lights
switched on by a minor celebrity?
That mayfly’d made her cling to, adore,
Every piece of flesh she once deplored,
It trailblazed radiance in and out of every pore.
No nervous laughing tears on the cusp
When strutting tigresses surrounded her
When she kew he sighs with blissful lust
At the intake of her wet hair
That he waits in stations far from home
Just to help choose curtains in Ikea
That he’d ring her from the edge of raves
‘Cause it’s only her voice he wants to hear.
That mayfly left within a day,
A year, an hour, what did it matter
That mayfly died or flew away
And left her like melted frozen spinach
Cold, stringy, soggy tatters.
They once watched Monty Python in the bath
Now she stared at her thighs
Anxious that they’d got fatter.
His laughing at her drunken natter
Was not funny now it brimmed with hate
Her reflection in his glasses showed no Venus
But desperate jailbait.
When he’d shout, she’d cry
When she cried, he’d swear
When he’d wait outside stations
Both knew he’d rather be elsewhere.
When he’d explain what about her drove him to despair
All her mind could churn was
What’s happened to my mayfly? Has it gone? To whom? To where?
The weight beside her in bed at night
Was heavy and dead with no mayfly in sight
She did not tremble, though she was frozen to core
And every knock chipped the block of ice,
Dimming any chance of thaw.
But then sometimes when she was caught offguard
The mayfly would hover in her backyard
After drunken nights, or workplace victory
He’d draw her near, say it’s all ok, I’m sorry
And she’d say sorry too and they’d sink into each other’s warmth
Like that mayfly had never withdrawn.
And she’d weep, cry out, “Mayfly! Where’ve you been?
How could you abandon me? Why would you be so mean?”
And the boy would recoil, glare, “It’s you who chased it away”
Then the mayfly’d retreat and flee like an
Incensed, defiant teen.
Morning, kitchen, twenty five past nine.
The hum of the mayfly is a memory they can’t mine.
She might forget its cruel betrayal
If it flies again in through the window
But he knows a joy ephemeral
Is one they must surrender.
Morning, kitchen, 9am
Tea the only thing to stir
Dry lips that once enclasped
Sealed tight, sour minds whir.
She glances at his holey sleeves
Dip into his toast and beans
Sleeves she once did steal, inhale,
Hide from him so she could hold them near,
Souvenirs to dream over when he weren’t here,
Now they make her quite unwell.
Her wrists can hardly bear the teacup
Hard shoulders hunched, neck long since freed up.
Those shoulders he’d trace with smooth, generous fingers
Whole hand tingling, euphoric sting that lingers,
In this cold, mean morning light he can’t recall
How he found those bones sumptuous
Wasn’t she once was soft, warm, luscious, raw?
Her carnal tides engulfing him, overflowing, superfluous.
Now as she wades her spoon through creamless, weakened tea
She’s just the fleshless, frosty cadaver of the girl that set him free.
And she glares at the spilled Heinz
He’s left dripping on clean laundry
There’s no residue of happy times
He’s churlish, she’s childish, they’re angry.
Who was that mayfly that bit and made her dizzy?
Skated across her brains
Glowed her face up like Christmas lights
switched on by a minor celebrity?
That mayfly’d made her cling to, adore,
Every piece of flesh she once deplored,
It trailblazed radiance in and out of every pore.
No nervous laughing tears on the cusp
When strutting tigresses surrounded her
When she kew he sighs with blissful lust
At the intake of her wet hair
That he waits in stations far from home
Just to help choose curtains in Ikea
That he’d ring her from the edge of raves
‘Cause it’s only her voice he wants to hear.
That mayfly left within a day,
A year, an hour, what did it matter
That mayfly died or flew away
And left her like melted frozen spinach
Cold, stringy, soggy tatters.
They once watched Monty Python in the bath
Now she stared at her thighs
Anxious that they’d got fatter.
His laughing at her drunken natter
Was not funny now it brimmed with hate
Her reflection in his glasses showed no Venus
But desperate jailbait.
When he’d shout, she’d cry
When she cried, he’d swear
When he’d wait outside stations
Both knew he’d rather be elsewhere.
When he’d explain what about her drove him to despair
All her mind could churn was
What’s happened to my mayfly? Has it gone? To whom? To where?
The weight beside her in bed at night
Was heavy and dead with no mayfly in sight
She did not tremble, though she was frozen to core
And every knock chipped the block of ice,
Dimming any chance of thaw.
But then sometimes when she was caught offguard
The mayfly would hover in her backyard
After drunken nights, or workplace victory
He’d draw her near, say it’s all ok, I’m sorry
And she’d say sorry too and they’d sink into each other’s warmth
Like that mayfly had never withdrawn.
And she’d weep, cry out, “Mayfly! Where’ve you been?
How could you abandon me? Why would you be so mean?”
And the boy would recoil, glare, “It’s you who chased it away”
Then the mayfly’d retreat and flee like an
Incensed, defiant teen.
Morning, kitchen, twenty five past nine.
The hum of the mayfly is a memory they can’t mine.
She might forget its cruel betrayal
If it flies again in through the window
But he knows a joy ephemeral
Is one they must surrender.
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