Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

« Previous item
Contents of this issue
Next item »

Susan Wicks

print this page

Moderato

(To Marguerite Duras with love)

My child never played the piano.
It was the clarinet mostly.
You can’t count a recorder.
And no escaping boat crossed the window
From frame to horizon.
She played in a pink-gold room under the lamp,
And the flowered curtains remained closed.

There was no murder in a French cafe.
No crowd gathered.
Our crimes were quite bloodless.
No-one was escorted to the van,
Desire smeared on their faces.
For us it took somewhat longer than a week.

But there was a magnolia tree, certainly.
The smell of flowers was all down the hill.
I didn’t actually press them to my bosom -
My bosom isn’t of that sort -
Though I did have one in my pocket for a while,
Pink and white with brown edges.

And if you had offered me a knife
I’d have slit my throat gladly,
And you might have tried dipping your fastidious
Prick briefly in the hole.

Back to top