You had a certain way
Of saying it, gifting it
A mythic quality;
So that even now
I cannot stand
To hear it.
You are not the plum.
Do you wish to go back
To the throes of youth?
First love, early learning?
A life lived in reverse
Where your heart
Is ever broken?
But you are the prune.
You fell in the spring.
It fizzled out in the heat
Of dazzling summer.
And now the rain:
A reminder of how you saw
Not one season together.
You are not the plum.
Those summer streets
Seemed to know you.
They carry you still.
If I’d known then how a whim
Would backfire so spectacularly
I’d have got off the train.
But you are the prune.
Your kind, concerned parents.
That strange, stilted dinner.
Our strained, sexless sleep.
Falling apart on your brother’s bed.
Tenderly you took my hand.
I blubbed like a shipwreck.
And as the plume de ma tante.
You were a lost soul,
Still grieving for another.
You couldn’t let go.
Crossing Hungerford Bridge
Over the insistent water,
Swirling a morbid ink.
Your ruin is my ploy.
What was it after all?
A choking gall,
A preserving sweet.
Bring me a higher love.
Bring me a higher love.
Bring me a higher love.
Two lovers embrace.
Your fingers slip loose
One last time.
It’s that higher love
I’ve been thinking of.