The door gave way on the third kick. I wished that it hadn’t as soon as the smell hit me. The notion of what a smell is will never fully explain what entered my nostrils that day. She had been there for three days, windows shut, in the dry Sri Lankan heat.
Her position was familiar, sitting in her favourite chair, facing the television. Her shorts and T-shirt seemed almost inappropriate for the situation. She was there, but gone.
The arc of blood up the wall behind her was brown now. A death rainbow, and at the end of it there was no pot of gold. The air was me, and I was the air. I breathed her decomposition.
I spent years thinking that she had been murdered. The Colombo murder squad hinted at the boys from the beach. They insinuated that she was a prostitute, that one thing had led to another. She was just another victim of just another brutal robbery in a poor country. Now I’m not so sure. Something happens to you when you discover a dead body. There is an interaction, even though one of you is no longer there. She told me something that day. It has taken me a long time to hear it but I hear it now.
I hear her pain, her disappointment, her release of expectation. I hear her dreams slowly disappearing as her heart hardened.
I hear her locking the door from the inside.
This pounded meat
Bruise-veined and scarred
Caged in red white bone
I butcher it to feel
Scar it to remember
Untwist its bloody tendered weave
And tear it once again
Pain or perfection?
I raise a bottle to the pain.
The dull ache tightly clamps the rusty
Blunt blade of connection.
Hold fast if you like.
But the slow pull will always win.
Serrated edges create their own crimson exit
A dizzy agony of goodbye frees the mottled sword.
I remember now, how to stitch.
How to mend.
How to prepare this scarred pounded meat
For another cook.
is blue. Or black, maybe.
It’s a dark colour and it opens with a knock.
Footsteps, a pause, then the click.
That’s the order of it.
I like the pause.
I know she’s looking at me through the small lens.
Just for a second.
The well oiled brass deadbolt prepares for its surrender.
The smooth click of defeat.
Unlocked, unbolted, unnecessary.
The lock is a lock once more.
Now with two in its charge.
8pm tonight UK time the Broken Verb is on the theme of nature. Submit poetry here to be read or played on November’s show. Next shows theme is alcohol. The written word or mp3 are acceptable formats.
Archived shows are available here http://www.reelrebelsradio.com
My breath was hard,
Tough, as I climbed.
Grass of foot and wet,
I found solace
Alone, by my side.
Misty winds distracted me.
Tempted me away
From my sodden silence.
I remembered then
Why I came.
Why I stood.
On damp hills
Where drizzle and dew
Sit side by side
On gentle blades.
Where grey clouds
To comfort the broken.
Why I stood.
Tonight at 8pm UK time The Broken verb spoken word poetry show is on the theme of ‘Politics’. Thank you to everyone who contributed their written and recorded poems and time.
Next months theme is ‘Love and Despair’. Light and lovely, dark and desperate, pleasure or pain. You tell me. Submit poetry here, or firstname.lastname@example.org, or @timkerton on twitter. Record your own words in your own voice in mp3 or wav format or send me the written words by August 24th.
Click here to listen. http://www.reelrebelsradio.com/
If you miss the scheduled time the show will be saved in the archives.