Let’s play Guess Who.
A thought from your head as blind
as a bus. Bats see with sound or not
at all, that game they play in porn
where a good moan is like a light
shone in a weir, to stop us fumbling
over bodies in the muck. You confuse me,
and there’s lots of it missing: faces eaten
by whatever it is that eats cardboard faces;
back from your Paris house all poet, words
so blunt they dislodge a hush, and I
feel old, stained with teabags, my stomach
aching like a comma in the strain of a retort.
Quietly irregular, you propose a truce,
and leave me naked with no I or object.
We used to fondle them like chocolates,
spell each other out with adjectives richer than
Araby, redder than the Arno, and I wish I could
erase every line, make you mute, living only
by the tactful prick of my tongue and the
click of tiles placed with purpose on a board.
_____________________________________________________________________________ D.O. Mckimm was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in 2010. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Inclement, nthposition, Upstairs at Duroc and Obsessed with Pipework. He lives and works in Taiwan. ’Scrabble’ is a finalist for The Best Short Writing in the World 2011.