John Stammers
We would wake up hungry in the night
in the night that was barely that,
so warm and perhaps never really dark
as if the sun had heated up the sky
so that it beat out a red glow like hot coals
and our insides on fire with a need.
You would pour on your silk robe,
the pallor of your thigh
disclosed in its opening as you walked.
We would hunt down the kitchen -
its big sliding window open,
an oblong of wet tropical air in the room.
The light from the fridge would fan out like a cone
with us illustrated in its exact beam.
And the thing is, I never remember
feeling anything but so awake
and without a hint of sleep or indistinctness
as if we were energised with light
and the cold air flowing out and over us.
Page(s) 7
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