Tartanalia
I stand outside your window at night waiting for you to open the blinds and see my tartan face the whites of my eyes shot with blood lines - green irises popping see how the plain silver kilt pins jawbone my skin together in the wind see how symmetrical and intricately blocked I am - each sawtooth of green dovetails with dark blue in a precise matrix see how the straps and buckles fit so neatly through the slits in my waist - hold fast I was that night bus that snagged on departure from Glasgow Buchanan Street and unravelled en route to London Victoria to help you find your way back - now I frown at your lack of fealty and the accents of your kids and yours - while you sleep, I’ll slip sliver after sliver of tablet onto your tongue until your teeth pop like lightbulbs see my gridlines keep everything in check stretch to infinity like a spreadsheet weighing up the debits and credits (you are in the red) that’s me peering in right now, an arrow slit of borrowed moonlight that’s my breath - that’s me hanging lifeless in your wardrobe - following you in the car lurking on shortbread tins and tea towels as you scurry past gift shops at airports avoiding eye contact - weigh me is my cloth too rich and heavy? Morning light slides past the blinds again and the first trains shake me out of the air.
The Tablecloth Trick
So the tablecloth is yanked from under the set table of you. Your head cartwheels around the room. Once it was a solid rampart on a goat’s brow. Not now. Glass crunches underfoot. A snapped stem, and a base minus a half moon wait to slit tidying fingers. Water from the slain vase edges over, dribbles on floorboards, finds gaps. The bouquet has scattered its damp confetti. A spoon rocks to stillness and reflects your inverse portrait. Each audience member waits for an audience member to make the first move. Every night the clatter reminds you she left. Under the duvet, you vanish.
Flight of the dragonfly 