Portrait of Anna Zborowska, 1917
You are up to your elbows in
yourself, declining. A lean
winter, hands chafed with cold.
First flush, your heat, gloved
in passion, mottled and holding.
Or beholden. One man’s giving –
shuffled between them, painter
and patron. Red/black. Hint
of a smile, quirked lip: what’s
you is subtle, hidden. That patch
of shadow at your throat, his blacks
licking at your skin. Eyes fixed
on nothing, edging towards Freud:
the divan a secret for you to hold.
Sophie MayerÀ face caché de la lune
“…This love is
not some experimental station
we use only to look into ourselves.” Andy Brown
The moon is in her hurry. Not fourteen days
to go, and you’re worried she has starved herself to a sliver
of anticipation.
Nights draw in, don’t yet taste of snow. It’s OK,
I say, she’ll be back. With my pumpkin face. Light
at the eyes.Sophie Mayer
UnwashingThe inside of rain is quietude, unwashing. Not the ring
of a neighbour’s phone, not the dishes, nor the laundry
left to spin and spin again. Clothes pegs not the answer.
Can’t hold it together. Can’t keep outside in. Extractor
fans are humming, turning air into air. No hint of soft
to smear the mirror, turn me cloudy-seeming. Cirrus-
faced to face the day. Another one come. Don’t hold
a hand out to the droplets – acid, drowning – or an upturned
self. You can’t umbrella when the sky is falling, only swallow
blue then blue. Nothing to it, this sluice of skin in lonely
seasons. You’d laugh if you knew how many times I’d made
that wish on the city star. Can’t hold a candle. Not to being held.
Sophie Mayer
