Our lives run like sparks through the rubble.  — Derek Jarman


You shouted awhile and he proposed some things.
Night at the opera. The room swayed and rocked,
pressed up against one another, the atmosphere
buoyant. Hard to pinpoint the exact moment
of possession. You were like magnets. He telegraphed
his happy desire to serve you orange almond thyme cake.

You took the plate from his extended hand. His
mechanical pencil rolled and dropped,
clacking when it hit the hardwood floor.


Copyright © Beth Follett. Originally published in A Thinking Woman Sleeps with Monsters (Apt. 9, 2014).


Beth Follett lives in St. John’s, NL. She is the publisher at Pedlar Press. Find Beth/Pedlar Press on Twitter @PedlarPress.

Subscribe to Poetry Pause or visit the Poetry Pause Archives.