John Gladwell
Fiesta
Such a long time ago,
when your skin was warm
and smooth to the touch.
The sky the colour of bones,
a shudder of fear,
lights strung between trees,
pavements streaked with wine,
beer, gutters running,
virgins dressed in white who,
as the night progressed,
had found their dresses torn
and faces daubed with paint which,
next day still lingered,
slight stains beneath the skin
as I, driving up into the hills,
had seen below Pollenca
scattered in the sun
and thought,
even more difficult
the long drive down
to where a butterfly
had fallen through
a half-open window,
becoming dust as you,
clutching at two folds
of skin had said.
‘This makes me feel safe’.
Avoiding fire by drowning,
as if, by hurting,
everything else could be excused.
Page(s) 60
magazine list
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- Shearsman
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