one’s child calling
herself
darling
like that –
Ava, what the fuck.
Better for me to say he was a ghost, than unpick that
tapestry,
though rich, I’m sure.
Actually,
the dream I’d had before your email moved
my phone across the bedside table with a buzz –
I could hear him in the basement of The Big House,
the sweet French doctor, I could hear him through the
floor, but couldn’t find the stairs or door
to get to him.
I asked the other people there – party guests,
all wearing masks that bore the faces of my favourite
people fixed in disappointment, I felt sweaty –
I guess it’s on my mind… I mean –
I’m trying this new deodorant out,
a natural one – have you gone through this phase
yet, Ava? You know those spray ones kill the planet or
your breasts –
it’s pretty herbal this one, intensely so
and though I’m not so sure it’s any nicer than the smell
of me… I persevere.
I must have worn it in my dream while looking for the
doctor because a figure with my mother’s face sniffed
and asked,
have you been marinating pork?
…sage, citrus, rosemary leaf oil…
I am the pork.
And still the doctor called me from the basement,
darling… darling…
but I couldn’t find the stairs
or door –
in horror films the basement is where monsters are.
I lived in someone’s basement for about a year,
it wasn’t you – was it? – The letting agent
for that place?
