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On the other table
I see you, with a new boy
not half as decent as I.
who sips his coffee
with a tender demeanour
only common on first dates.
 
He is young, his skin burns
in the heat, the fire
your eyes are.
This, and you are all i see.
 
My eyes are all I have brought today
My senses, the rest, are still in bed.
 
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Saturday.

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like sunflowers belong to the sun
I wish my name carried words
from yours. I hunt here on the bed.
Where your scent still lies on my favourite
bed-sheet.

That i must wash today
before mother arrives and asks
what i did for the weekend
as i sit imagining you, your lips
and how your hands carried me last
Saturday.

Now, I wait. Patiently for mother
with my carefully constructed lies
i watch the front door, wishing, imagining:
you walk through the door, with
Saturday in your arms and on your lips,
Me.

Exile.

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In exile,
my desire mimics the space
it occupied in my small garden
under the tree where it whittles your name
and whistles like the wind
as it did a year or two ago
was it summer? or the rain?
no one remembers.
 
In exile, my desire mimics
everything but you, weeps
and slowly whispers:
 
I have overstayed
my welcome
but do not let go.
 
 
 
 
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In the shadow of a large looming tree
an old waitress serves you coffee.
With a side of ripe plums.
Her lips move with an odd ring.
Prunes is the term for plums,
her favorite fruit
in her language, tastes tart too.
Her voice sounds like an epiphany,
The plums she served today
were too ripe for the cake.
That sits in the oven
for her favorite customer:
 
an old man in his 40s
who speaks little French.
She weaves us in her dream.
We follow, We watch
her serve plums to the old man
talking softy, with patience.
We are in her head, or heart
listening
learning
to love
and to bake
plum cakes
from perfect plums
 
artwork from “Gainsboro” Series, Transferware Collectors Club.

history.

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artwork by Harry Campbell
I write to you
on a black sheet of paper.
I write hard
so it shreds the paper to bits,
 
and feels like running a knife
through the underside
of my belly
i can feel the cuts:
 
from all those years ago
when I am running on fields
of the same flower
mother left when she left home,
 
all those years ago
they fall but make no sound
i tremble again in the wind
with them
 
i can hear mother speak,
she whispers in the air,
‘What’s wrong, where have you been
who have you loved?”