Unity of Effect

Brian is asking me to speak up
And the phone is slipping out of reach.
It seems sighing weakly into the mouthpiece
Is less than effective;
The perfume of my precious remaining breath
A tinfoil explosion at his end of the line.
Also, I’ll concede,
He can’t exactly hear the brittle trembling of my hand
or the theatrical sagging of my wrist
So I grip the damn thing properly and clear my throat.

Tomorrow people will take an interest in Brian.
They will say it was because he wears his hair long
His off-white Romanticism chic,
His Byronic nonchalance so deliberate
that his presence is in a state of constant paradox
And regularly implodes.
No-one will think to check his bookshelves for Poe
And so will never really know why I chose him.

Looking calmly at my ceiling I explain the situation:
The mistake I have made and how
The use of his deep and urgent voice
The lend of his overflowing cradling arms
The application of his wet eyelashes to my bloodless flesh
Would be
Great.
Very helpful.
If he doesn’t mind.
Hurry over, thanks.
I haven’t left
a lot of time.

I love the way he swears as he kills the line.
I lie still and in fifteen minutes spill like fabric
Between his efforts and the carpet.
Convulsing slightly, gasping dramatically
And peeking at his growing confusion.
Cosmopoliton magazines are stacked on the table.
But there’s sadly no diet plan available for this occasion.

I say his name an awful lot, though
Manage to weep without blocking my nose.
That’s dedication to my art, my part.
My waterproof mascara a godsend.
I twist in agony and try to turn blue.
It’s all so very tragic I assure you.

There’s now tomato sauce everywhere
And wax from the candles in the rug.
My too-persistent heartbeat
Breaks the sudden silence,
The indicator that... I think he’s gone.
Yes, he’s gone.
Can you believe it?
I’m deserted, a poor corpse,
To drag up some supernatural resource
of life,
To bear the spasmodic protest of every muscle
To scrape defunct tendons like tired violins
and call the funeral home myself.

I lurch to my feet and open my window
I see him at one with the dark below
And I keep yelling after him:
“What’s the most poetic thing?”