Those residencies in the grand old houses had
dried up – well it couldn’t last forever could it?
Perhaps my covetous heart was showing.
Perhaps the work I made for them just wasn’t cutting it,
perhaps they saw me touch their bird,
Oh yes Ava, I touched it
it was SOFT and real
and scared.
And on the day those loved-up
royals wed, I joined my cousin
and her friends at some
vanilla-buttercream street party –
bunting – you call that bunting? – Victoria
sponge, face paint, paper cups of wine.
Oh I was mad bored, Ava,
wearing my most sensible button-up dress with little
daisies on it,
I was restless
reckless,
heard some distant bass
and wandered like a child to the piper,
or a thief towards a window pie –
a rougher street, a makeshift DJ booth,
a crush of bodies, cans and smoke,
that’s better, Ava,
it didn’t matter that I was alone –
I joined the throng, I bobbed and swayed,
I drank a beer,
the MC’s voice was blurry on the
sound system,
a man was dancing close behind me
and then with me
and I danced back
enjoying
that I hadn’t even looked at him, had no idea whose
body
I was grinding on,
I’m no Orpheus, Ava, Ava, Ava, whoever
was behind me
so be it!
