ManicDDaily

Manchester by R.A.D. Stainforth

Relationship

We both were in love
with an other–
not an ideal basis
for a relationship, though everyone likes to have
a witness to
their suffering–
still, there must have been
something else–his  sarcasm,
my sensitivity
to sarcasm,
his self-indulgence, my
self-deprivation, as in, when there were graduate school dinners
he insisted upon cigars while I boycotted
not just the pudding but also the cheese accompanying
the port meaning that all this happened
on cobble-stones
in the UK where
we ended up not in love,
not (oh my lord) in bed, but
in that kind of long-armed limp-led dance where, when I did not appear
for several days, he made
a search, and when he went undercover, I sent
notes–all the time knowing that each of us
was nothing
compared to the other–
that one who did not seek, write–but who, when he happened
to glance over
his beautifully sculpted nose looked
just beautiful–

unlike us, whose noses
when we walked in the rain (or maybe even not)
dripped, who guffawed
when we laughed, that is, who groaned
even as we laughed, and this, you see,
was the language we spoke to one another–
this friend and me–guffaw–which is not a language
spoken by just anyone–ha!–
not, at least, without an accent–no, you have to groan
in your bones to speak
it properly; you have to
have grown up
with rejection, to have learned by heart ache
the short “a” in cat, the long “o”
in rote, that “oo” sound
that makes up the moon that you jump over
again and again
as if you were a sodding cow, and as if, you know, cows
could jump, cows with legs too thin
for their bulks, and those long-keening
lows.

*************************

Poem of sorts for The Mag, hosted by Tess Kincaid, photo by R.A.D. Stainsforth.    Also linking to Real Toads open platform, hosted by Marian.