FOR MY AUNT, ALEMASH STEFANOS
CONTENTS
RECEPTION
The Waitress and the Nights of the Round Table
Colour Blind
Charlie’s Playing Blackjack
Invisible Kisses
Slipping
Murdering Bill
Attempted
Immigration RSVP
Erratic Equipoise
Fair
ONE LEVEL
The Repossesion: Lot 67
Baptism in Mire
Controlled Explosions
Children’s Home
Walking in Circles
My Dad is a Pilot
Guilt
LEVEL TWO
Sandwich Love
Crowd Control (UK 79–97)
The Elevator
A Flock of Sound
Love & the Blender
The Graduate and Her Secret Thesis
The Hand That Feeds Me
Inner City Out of my Mind
The Falling of Summer
A Reading in Stanstead
The Bruise
Quiet Places
Windowstill
LEVEL FREE
Mourning Breaks
THE WAITRESS AND THE NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
Each immaculate table a near perfect reflection of the next;
A ‘40s Hollywood formation dance captured in time –
In black and white.
On the mahogany, polished as a morning pond,
Each tablecloth flapped as swan’s wings
And each landing perfect.
She made pieces of butter, intricate
As the hand-woven curls in a judge’s wig.
And if not so legal and final
They’d be a crest of waves
Caught in yellow sunshine.
Each serviette a silent smiling signet born in her hands,
Each flower arranged as if grown for this evening
Sucks water slowly through the stem and raises its neck.
They bathe in the light flitting from cut crystal vase
And stand assertive in centre tables, waiting.
She picks a speck of dust from a spotless unspeckled carpet.
Her reflection buckles in the neck of a mercurial fork
While the solemn red candles wait
To weep their red tears.
She pauses as a mother would for a moment
In the front room, before the visitors arrive,
In admiration and slight concern
And bathes in the symmetry and silence
And the oddness of order -
Even the tables seem to brace themselves as she left.
The picture was distorted when she returned from the kitchens.
A hungry hoard of steak-sawing, wine-guzzling,
Spirit-sapping, double-breasted suits had grabbed their places.
They dug their spiked elbows into the wilting backs of tables.
The tablecloth dripped congealed red wine from its quiet hanging corners
And the sounds of their grunts, growls, their slurping,
Their gulping and tearing invaded the hall.
But a black swan amongst a sea of serrated cutlery, she soared just abov
And wove a delicate determined ballet inbetween and invisible.
She walked for miles that evening, balancing platters,
Pinafore-perfect hair clipped so not to slip.
The wine warmed and the candles cried.
In the background of the lashings of laughter –
The guttural sound of wolves.
She retrieved a carcass of lamb, poured red,
And didn’t notice the bloodshot eyes slide over her:
Nor the claws stretching and puncturing leather brogues;
Scratching the wooden floor; nor their irritation at her.
One mauled a mobile phone with a clumsy paw.
The alcohol-fuelled change was taking hold.
And together they could be and become who they really were.
Wolves. Wolves in their pride. Wolves in their pack.
Their lower jaws had stretched and eyes slitted –
