In the Middle of Analysis

By | 1 June 2022

In the middle of the night
in the middle of a shared pandemic
I lay on my back not falling to pieces

in the middle of the clay-pans
in the middle of three-ways
I am falling into peace

concealing my eyes in the middle of rapture
inhaling their Requiem of silence in D Minor
I frolic in the middle of denial

if it pleases the jury of midnight recovery
and all that glitters is not quite sold
I crave the cravings of my Jewish lover
her middle-finger figure-skating around
the outskirt of my arching sovereign mouth

over there, where – against the rocks of
somebody else’s songlines
she and her gather well-heeled in the middle of
an open fire-engine-red chaise longue

pressing if we must
into scalloped watercolours
dividing rehearsals all over again,
and again, and again

in the middle of a raftless desert-sea
I catch a fallen star from the ankle of a
petulant Milky Way
placing it firmly inside my lover’s middle pocket

in the middle of nowhere
yet someone else’s somewhere
remunerating each other’s unravelling limbs
in dialogue for spare body parts
suddenly, in the middle of an unordinary stanza
I choose to release her Hebrew stare

in the middle of a shared odyssey
halfway through mid-sentence
syphoning the foam
between Scylla and Charybdis

ego aside
my therapist survives

Whilst I, the sometime poet
by the bye return to my lovers’
unpublished womb

Yvette Henry Holt
Bidjara, ī́man|Yiman, Wakaman,
Occasional Poet

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