Padel


Trying to get back into writing anything other than academic waffle and blog waffle. I don't want to spread any more gossip about Ruth Padel, but I took her into a bath with me this morning for an hour, and really enjoyed myself.
I don't read enough poetry anymore, and this has to change. I saw this, and LOVED it.

Tell Me about It. 


When they mourn you over there
the way you'd want, the way you mourn
your friends;


when they're celebrating
having loved you
in Derry, Rathmullen, wherever -


birettas, candles, Latin,
all the weavings you don't believe in
but love anyway and I'll never share


for who the hell converts to 
ex-Catholic? - no one will know
someone's missing you here


for ever. Whose arms,
printed with that absolute
man's stillness


when your breath calms
into my shoulder, and you fall asleep
inside me, open and close


in a foreign night round nothing.
Who misses the way
you pour loose change onto a bar


in a puddle of fairytale silver
and move through the night,
through everything, curious


mischevous as a mongoose
and never an unkind word.
I might dream


of coming over, touching
just one friend's sleeve
to whisper


'Talk about him. A bit.
The way he was, here' -
but never do it. Instead,


I'll say Yes in my sleep
to you. To no one. You'll put
your tongue in my mouth, deep.


the way you do, 
and my eyes will open
on a dark garden. I'll wake up


touching myself for you.
The alarm will stare
venomous digits. I'll hang on


to the fragile haze
of a wine-bar.
when you leant over the foreign formica, 


haltering my hand within your two
like the filling in a sandwich,
sashaying the skin of each finger


down to the soft web between,
over and over, a rosary of rub
and slide, as if you could solder


me to your lifeline. As if
you could take me with you.
and I'll wish you had.


Ruth Padel.