Maybe the Ex-Queen
In my dream I was packing for Anjuna
clothes selected for your funeral
tightly pressed in your old suitcase
and I ripped a page from a book
with a special poem, but I didn’t look
and now I’m awake I’m at a loss
as to what it was
– perhaps Fleur
Adcock?
I know you knew if I
was well enough
I’d have come while you were alive
I’d have tended to your needs
and you to mine
and we’d have fought
as we always did
trigger happy tarts
targeting each other’s hearts
in a transactional analytical field day kind of way
but now we were in our fifties
we had a nifty plan
to meet on the beach
(in Goa or Brighton)
and try out some gentler manoeuvres
One two three four
I declare a thumb war
Fuck!
I didn’t think you’d come astride a terrestrial body,
your hair crackling, your eyes like comet-sparks*
the Full Moon in Taurus
as close as she’s ever been
to Earth in our lifetime,
but I’d never doubted that you’d win.
No, I never doubted that you’d win.
* Fleur Adcock’s The
Ex-Queen among the Astronomers
