The Image of Your Voice

I saw your boots and nothing else the day we met. Your voice drifting, strangely disconnected. I studied the sand and dirt ground into leather that had once been black, laces tied in knots and looped around your ankles. And listened to your words become synonymous with them. Now I know your face and know it well. But your voice will belong forever to your feet.

This Is Not A Tomato

Wow, he said. That’s red, isn’t it?

She grinned and said, I know.

Distance

I’m sending you a tube of lip balm, so you can know the flavour of my kiss.

Hypochondriac On The Edge

Alcohol makes my limbs swell up to twice their size and causes my face to turn as red as a baboon’s backside. Heroin’s so expensive these days, they say. And god only knows what they put into coke. You could be snorting washing powder for all you know. I would turn to prostitution but I’m allergic to other people’s sweat. Just a millisecond’s contact is enough to make me break out in hives. I can’t stand the sight of blood –I’m apt to faint– so razor blades are out. And I find sleeping pills just a little bit too risky: too many and I may throw them up, damaging my fragile throat; too few and I could wind up in the hospital, having to have my stomach pumped. I’ve never tried it but I’m sure there would be complications. So that left me with platform one of the nearest subway station. I turned up fully prepared at a quarter to eight, peak hour, dressed to blend in with the suits and trenches. I felt exhilarated, or I would have done if my heart condition allowed it. Can’t be too careful, you know. Keep stress and excitement to a minimum. But there were a number of unforeseeable circumstances: in my haste I forgot to bring money for a ticket so I had to beg my way inside, quarter by quarter, losing precious time. Then the crowds jostled me along to platform two instead of one. Unfamiliar turf. They stood in rows, giving me no reason to loiter by myself at the end of the platform. I figured I’d queue with the rest of them, then make a dash for it as the train approached. But that wasn’t counting my troublesome hip –it’s been suggested I may need a replacement by the age of sixty– which clicked out of its socket after only two big strides. People turned around and eyed me disapprovingly. They thought I was trying to jump the queue, I realised suddenly. Faced with unexpected amounts of such negative attention, I could do nothing but apologise profusely and let everyone board. My mother raised me right. I’ll just jump as it departs, I thought. I sidled over to the edge but, my oh my, how could I have missed the grime down there? It was unbelievable, not at all like platform one. Close contact was bound to cause the mumps or rubella, the plague even. Just imagine that, I thought, shaking my head. And I did imagine it, in vivid detail, shuddering all the way home.

Brushes

Our toothbrushes are closer than we are. This morning I found them face to face, their bristles touching.