1 First, the corridor

Trying to find some place to stuff you.
To my left, where left, the not-so phantom
whitmanesque satisfiers: boulders come up
from... from under-lint made bulbous by my feet's
inadequate grammatterings. Huge somehow,

deluged under proprioceptors.
This should be easier though than these.

To right, sour-hughes: a pastoral England
past its solstice. Berries I noticed today,
already orange.
Trees randy for their crows.

2 hallway

So I should be able to take my clot
between index and thumb
and yum yum it to myself.
Hum blood into at least part
of a baby face; make whole
of you, our apartness.

3 'But' the house calls

and there are no presences.
I don't believe in the Translatress,
humifacents that I can't spell.

Tubes are after all other women's
placentae. My laughter lines
allergic to aborteds.

4 doorway

I was cyanotic. This they didn't tell. But I learnt it.
Couldn't cry. Their tube into me
like your dread.

            Research is an alleyway
       between cushions
     between comforts.

5 stairs

And stepping down today
I grew afraid.
I have ear wax.
I can mould you.
I can fix you like a corn dolly.

But you're only ever a surfactant. Ever an after-
thought and the summer's done
and from other glands
I must dredge
contact.

6 bottom step

pre-verbal
tantric spurt
cunt-spritz in my palm
loving you       oh and as borndead this knowing you
without knowing you a gift walls afterthoughts
seeing you where you sit and smoke and knowing what you drink

and why especially The Sad

7 library

that palm, that held the elephant's head hawk moth
a brilliant fluorescent pink and
                                                                         
                     green

and watched it pump its wings
and it must have flown
for it was gone
a Donne at a lean
a child's parents have finally split
one of my old dog's 's arthritic

spaces left by age
conflict
words failed
words bringing me back

8a pebbledash walls

8b carpet

but come in your hand
and slide some under the mat
so that there's no need for dust mites'
shit dropping through the pile
to ground us
a gorgeous scent of something
chicly avant-garde depthing
where poets bear grime
break
fuck furrows into borrowed cisms
and the crust of you found years hence
is made famous

9 by the stink

we'll kick up

AnnMarie Eldon was born in Birmingham, England. Her work has, is or will be found at Aught, Can We Have Our Ball Back, Conspire, Duct Tape Press, Fire Magazine, Junket, Impetus, Locust, and several other magazines.  

 AnnMarie

 Eldon