Kirsten Harris


My playmate he is not poetry
he is prose and I loved him
like I love this city, gritty and
grey and real; and if time
were not an awkward linear shuffle
I would love him still

if the world ran on my time looping discordant
it would always be like that day: kind goddess
mushroom tending our puckered brow and summer
and winter merely sidesteps on the ground
to be danced between at will, sun sliver
so crisp against numb winter sky resting
cheek to his knee, Sheffield smeared
miniscule in the valleys below

if it were not this progressive scuffle I would
always love him like we loved the 40 black boxes
that sang a disembodied choir with us laid in its centre
head to head, legs spanning out to opposing walls
a blanket of voices over the dazzled white
gallery floor and one peaked kiss before
security scurried us away

or the cascading glass drops tumbled blue from the sky
we crawled under the exhibition and we laughed
and laughed, it was so beautiful from that upturned

I loved him like I love this city, it snuck up on me

my playmate went mad in the green room
jungle plants and bamboo and crickets
curiously bleating lime light splashed
over our confused faces, hands grabbing hair
we stared muddy-eyed at the Persian rug
and cried

if we ran in my sweeping loops I promise
it would have always been like this
and I would have loved him proper
and sacred and true but the friend that I loved
chose to leave, and I lost the power
of cyclical vision.



(c) 2006 University of Sheffield Department of English Literature :: designed by nagzaka :: maintained by Bunnyphobia