Last night I went to see the fantastic Andrew McMillan perform at Poem & a Pint. He read from his multi-award-winning (make that multi-multi-award-winning) collection, Physical, and then tantalised us with material from his upcoming collection, Playtime.
Playtime doesn’t come out till next year, but in the meantime, here’s on of the poems I performed at one of the open mic slots last night. As you may have guessed, it’s titled after a Joni Mitchell song. It was shortlisted for the 2017 Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize and features in my pamphlet, Breaking the Surface (Flipped Eye, 2017):
You’re in My Blood like Holy Wine
The nights we came home drunk and every night,
we sat side by side, toes curled over the cliff
of the bed in your Oxford bedsit, and talked
about nothing. I know this, because it struck me
how precisely we controlled our breath,
how intricate each flex and shiver of skin
for words that no one cared about. We talked
about next door, the radio constant
through the brickwork, clutching at stations
before moving on. Sometimes, our arms
brushed and for a second, I spiralled
like smoke. There were always cigarettes
and the faint smell of apples, your burgundy
sweater, and the bristled curve of your throat.
There were dark thumbprints in the bowls
of old wine glasses, stacks of plates
like unopened letters, crumbs
sharp as insects littering the rug –
and all the words I didn’t know how to say
were crows, flapping their frantic wings
against the inside of my mouth.
I swallowed, and they clawed my stomach
raw and sick. I’ve tried to drown them
in spirits, thick and toxic as the dark,
drown them till they tasted of nothing
but iron and burnt toast, and my body
was a smudge of wings on a pebble beach.
I’ve tried to speak. Once, I twisted my fingers
in the duvet, as if there would be ripples
that could reach you: your solid, immovable legs.
You shut the blinds, switched on the desk lamp
and Joni Mitchell – how I could drink a case of you
and I would still be on my feet – but before the end
you cut the track to watch the trailer
for the new James Bond. You said, I know
how you feel about me, and I believed you.
Remember the Church of the Assumption
of Our Lady in Mosta? Where the bomb
that plummeted through the roof in 1942
into the middle of a morning mass
without exploding was still on display,
and the little card proclaimed this a miracle
in several languages. Remember
how we watched it for almost twenty minutes,
how its silence filled the room
till we imagined we could hear it ticking:
a gunmetal heart; the weight of a hammer
raised above a head or bell
about to be struck; the stretched skin
of a drum anticipating thunder.
Or maybe it was just our own blood
beating against our ears like fists
against a door. Remember how I said, I wish
it would do something drastic, I wish it would explode?