Read Poetry: Desks, by Tessa Foley

He would never have told her, drawn and cauterised
He watched her in cold concentration and believed
She’d one day touch his knee on motorways and wear his
Own green shirt to draw the curtains. He can note she’s not
Perfect from twelve inches close, but if that were true, how is it so?
That he can count his ribs with his heart’s top right tongue
When all that she does is touch finger to the bridge of her nose
Or scrabble at files’ spinal tab, one fingernail picking the stubbornest
Glue. When she spells ‘U’ on the phone, in the morning,
He thinks she means him and stands to the side
Of her pinched profiled face. When she yawns, he sees
Smokes of her hair on his pillows, when she cracks her wrist joint,
He feels the encircle of bones, She’s what he’d call his Darling
If he could catch all facets of her in his palm, till then
The ladling spoons of unreal sweet – she turns, looks
At the window with one sweated pause in her breath and his life,
Deadish minutes slip straight through the face when he
Sees her lean on one elbow, a desk or the door
When he shuts his eyes nightly, tartan spots till the dawn
He chills at the thought of next morning without her,
Though there in his distance, his thoughts roll in pleasing her,
Beneath sycamore trees, falling keys all uncut, in ten years
In an armchair with an infant or two, in a portrait above
A real fire, but still his words stick in his personal cellar,
One day he will tell her with never a stammer, but for now,
She’s impossible weather for him to enjoy, and for better
For worse, he takes someone else home, through
The dangling blinds, he will watch her walk by.


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Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

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