AllisonEastley

Beauty, I've Seen You #1

In the language of rain,
in the wind,

the waves
cresting the ocean,

for the memory
made new, repeated

like a mantra,
the sweet noise of love

making, the languid noise
of skin against skin,

the quiet noise
of a cheek resting

against a thigh.
Strange too,

how your name sung out,
murmured,

held in the
closeness of sex

takes on such significance,
and when it continues

it is like a lullaby.
I wish you were my lover

but danger lies
with morphine leaving

me here, right here
and so far away

the darkness
is a sleepless waiting

for you to call
my name

and then, under
the blindfold, I'll tie

you tightly
to all that is unknown.

You'll moan,
and whimper.

Do you think I will stop?
I may. I may not.

fall 2006

Hospital Corners

The scent of wind
caught in sheets pegged to the washing
line.

Small leaves from a nearby Camellia
blew in her hair
while she stood,

removing the pegs
and carrying the sheets to her bed,
hands as neat as the habit

of lifting, then tucking
the bottom of the sheet into hospital
corners from the time she worked

as a nurse,
and now, after four winters,
each one different

and each one the same slow
pause, an ache
that never fades.

Sometimes, she thinks seasons
don't change,
that the frost on the lawn

will never thaw.
Frozen
despite the chicken vindaloo,

jasmine rice steaming
the kitchen window
foggy as a half remembered dream.

She eats. She drinks.
She swallows a slow release tablet,
10mgs of white morphine,

turns off the lights
before she lies on her back
keeping her hands by her side

because if they covered
her chest
it would look like she's waiting

for mourners
instead of another morning
that isn't happy

and isn't sad. It isn't normal
either. Not much to do
when acute lingers

like nurses taking their evening
meal, the only break
where they can talk in private

before returning to the work
of checking wounds,
the suture-lines cleaned

with normal saline
which has the same amount
of salt as tears.

It doesn't sting. It often feels warm.
It's different than the cold
in chronic

trapped like a nerve
at first. From there it gets
a whole lot worse.

The Woman With A Thick Black Luxurious Moustache

doesn't have a place in the story.
She was shoved in one Saturday
early in the afternoon

when he said he'd like to take her to bed,
then added, out of courtesy
only if she felt amenable

that is, would she mind if he undressed
her in natural light, her hand
on his shoulder as he bends,

slips off her jeans
after she lifts her arms
for him to remove the top half of her clothes

and then of course,
he holds her hand and what follows
next depends how bad her back is.

Sometimes she's passive
to avoid what happens every morning.
She doesn't want to talk

how much it hurts
so she questions without him
knowing the answer is beauty

less the conventional pick
of what a woman is.
He's attentive and kind and he says,

a woman with intelligence,
keen insight, a woman who wants to know
who the hell he is

is sensual
if she happens to have
what he can't describe

except to opine the word mystery
will have to do
and not only that, her mystery

has to be held at first sight,
then discovered to be deep.
So deep

possibilities take flight
when he says a hairy woman,
say, a woman with more hair of her chest

than him is OK.
And when he imagines a woman
with a thick black luxurious moustache

he says he may consider a hint
or two
regarding removal.

As for clothing,
a woman can wear whatever she chooses
as long as these questions

aren't about her
because he enjoys looking
when she tempts him to remove

that pretty green top. The fabric
reminds him of India
and because the cotton is thin,

perfume escapes the same way
her hair falls on his face
when she sits on top of him.

He's never been to India
even though he knows Ganesha
is an Elephant god

and if he was forced to choose a religion
he'd be a Hindu and if
he was a Hindu, he's have to wash his feet

in the stinking river where the risk
is rife.
And this is what it is like.

The pain in her back
has her searching for compromise
she imagines an Indian bride

in bold red would wear
in a portrait shot in a book
about beauty found in ordinary places.

Allison Eastley

"I live in Tasmania, Australia with my two sons and a staffy pup. Previous work has been published in The Absinthe Literary Review, Stylus, a pos tro phe, the-hold.com with forthcoming work soon to be published in the thieves jargon."

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