Oh. It was my funeral
out the back
hanging like a crown
of empty yogurt tubs on a pipe cleaner.
I have had a bit too much tea and no breakfast yet
studying the accurate tombstones
of West Norwood Cemetery from bed
or the city skyline
(another graveyard)
from Blythe Hill Fields
in air which made us blush
which revealed like any exposure
what had been there for some time
but not all along.
There were thousands of wasps and a couple of hornets
and two Arab kids trying to count them
all these white tulips
buttery
the radio defunct
laying down under a willow
what?
We like nature too
haven’t you seen our desert sunsets in screensavers?
Look how the palm tree is silhouetted in this tragic place
tragic as Putney
but never as tragic as Barnes.
River defines the divide
I was walking along Wickham Road, SE4
I have people over there
in Jaffa, north of the river, in Croydon
real friends who pull out the stamens of rhododendrons
and thread them onto sticks with you
wearing padded bras, sucking beers through straws
not at all getting run over.
I didn’t need any help being alive for the time being
as long as I could call after work sometimes
to make you laugh
as long as our mamas stopped
reaching for a Silk Cut Silver, sighing
time will tell
that is, God will
that is, time will
God willing
meanwhile here is your relation
to time called anxiety
and here is its remedy
and here is squeezing its tadpole head till it pops
turning off
dragging the scissors elaborate over the forearms
making new friends
whose food you might be packing right now
or who might be packing yours
smoking round the corner
or on a stoop
a palm tree in the suburbs suddenly
or was I a parakeet
on a diagonal balcony with metal railings
exactly the blue of the sky.
I might have been dancing
going fast, riding high –
I’ll burn this place to the ground with you
after I finish my homework
after I pluck every hair from my body
after we unmask romance
in its most Catholic corner
going fast, riding high –
kid, the world is wall to wall assholes
stop trying to count them
while you’re up grab me two clementines
stop being surprised
you can find a way that doesn’t make you sad
nothing is more boring than a cynic
you can find your people
lavender weeds blooming from brick walls
you can find yourself silent and alone
uninterrupted
observing the city from your third womb
from every available hill
deeper and deeper.
How can I do anything with anyone?
Every group assaults itself
and is ringed with managers.
How can we live together?
Here is my stubborn bitch chorus
chilling on rooftops
each one containing every possible dawn
able to love precisely,
out loud, silently and without end
fuck a home in this world
solitude isn’t recovery from people
loneliness isn’t desire
so many unending backs I almost drowned in
loving to swim in every water
my costume always tucked into my backpack.
In that cold river
I saw minnows and mud
and swans from underneath –
I saw you in a dressing gown
on a fire escape
I saw you drunk and annoying
as I unrolled the bed and giggled
I saw you buoyant in your
feathered hat talking fast
I saw you seeing me back when it was black cold
and the lasagne was burning
I saw you leaning outside the station
shadowy like your photograph
what do I know but these seeings?
How do you ever say ‘we’?
I will listen to every word you say.
Notes:
‘I have had a bit too much tea and no breakfast yet’ is a line from an email from my friend Deirdre.
‘wearing padded bras sucking beers through straws’ is from the song ‘Buffalo Stance’ by Neneh Cherry.
‘fuck a home in this world’ is Fred Moten in The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study, Stefano Harney and Fred Moten (2013).
When writing ‘How do you ever say ‘we’?’ I was thinking of Lotte LS’s essay ‘The We of A Position’ in The Poetry Foundation, (2019).