Remember that rose?
From the Polaroid I took
At the rooftop restaurant
Of the Centre Pompidou?
Soft lobes, single stem,
Dipped in a slim vase,
In a Barbie-pink bar:
A dreamscape for lovers.
What happened to it
After we left, did the
Blush run to brown,
Head wilt and drop
Tear-like petals
Onto the table,
For the wind
To take them?
O rose
Thou art sick
Of being
In love.
On that sacre
Parisian Weekend,
Not like the first,
When I took ill and slept
While you schlepped
Round the 6th, alone.
Fell out on the Metro
And the Eurostar home,
My cheeks aflame,
The honeymoon over.
The next time we came
We fucked on the desk
In our room. Did we
Argue? Possibly.
Though it seems unkind
To say that we did,
That in the old us
There was the new.
The used-up now us
That crawls into bed
And sleeps like death.
This us. That us.
Here we are,
And there we were.
Whatever happened
To that rose?
Whatever happened
To us, for all that?
O rose
Thou art sick
Of being
A rose.
Other Polaroids:
Your shoes and bag
On a black tiled floor,
Clothes just out
Of shot. One of you
Taken prior to dinner
Your face radiant
In the flash,
Around your neck
The scarf you lost
In London. Where?
You can’t remember.
Whatever happened
To that scarf?
Whatever happened
To that rose?