three poem suite

1 November 2017

i. when to clean a wig
a wig must always be clean
or else develop a particular smell
or else slick strappy heavy faced
in all my years wearing wigs
none told me how to clean
one where to hang it where to
wear it can I shampoo it
hang it with my towel and
when do I put it on
again when do I take it
off for lovers how can I
keep it off their pillows and
its hint at secrets out of
their cruel visions and suspicions my
husband was once such a lover
who moved so quickly into me
and my life because he took
his glasses off when we went
to bed his underwear and mine
still on after sex no questions
about what item strewn where and
when they would be washed or
if they were clean I was
poised outside his bathroom door so
long itching at my scalp knowing
only metres away he rubbed his
cunt before we had the courage
to speak this long desire both
of us negotiating
somethings and others.
when I showered there first
I
screamed at a spider
and he
entered saw me
wigless and wet
put it
in a jar said
nothing
saw nothing more than my
naked head it would have been
less intimate less vulnerable if
instead
I left my breasts
and bits
on the hook
with that spider.
ii.
lurch ever-towards
some clumsy recount
describe and mis-describe.
who can ever tell a
thing exactly as they saw?
and not a slip or shift into
agog, delight or dread?
and who can hear exactly
as was said?
iii. a seeing
space
is
instructive
yet
flat –
just four megabytes
just
two
dimensions
no
dive-in;
archive;
un-archive;
neglect;
recall.
arse
off
astroturf
books
on
astroturf
blown
out –
books thrown out,
electrons
sent
out
to claim place
for
their
nucleus:
naked
form,
lamp, desk
– protons
couch
a
buoyed
neutron
as
unlikely
a
seeing
as any –
I read a
lithium
ion
gone
big
through smallness
small,
light
mote.
Batteries. Pills.
a
vehicle
for
rest
through
restlessness.
all
responses
to art are
just
likenesses
of
their
makers.
I res–
–pond
no diff’rent.
(Laptop lithium
batt’ry
failing.)
I
write,
my
own sight
farce
arse
to
the astroturf
even
now.
art
came to
me.
To
live
amongst it.
Become
big.
an image’s third
dimension
is
a wished-for
sight.
an
absent
mind.




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