I am the tall dark stranger

those warnings prepared you for.

You are one of those people, it is

clear, who needs help. I think you

should stop speaking in a low attractive

voice whenever you call. Stop

making me think of velvet and

fragrant tobacco and that first sip

of bourbon. Stop inciting

stirrings, movements between us,

little rebellions, causing chaos in all

of my darker places. The top half of

my body is at gross political warfare

with the lower. One part of me is

roaring and the other wholly

disapproves. You are a beautiful

danger. Do not force me to

open up. Some books are bound

tightly for years for reasons. Some

books are burned for their own

good, Love. Stop wearing clothes the

way that you do. Don’t allow them to

cling to your body like that. Do not

follow these effortless fashions where

everything looks just so, because,

really … who could resist

such a thing? The Lord knows you

are beautiful and unfair. I think perhaps

you should spare a thought, dear, for

those who are sick over you, burning up

with you, damp with you. You know what

you do. You’re a slow fever. Don’t be so

very engaging, amusing or witty or bright.

You are causing confusion and jams in

tight spaces. You are an accident in

waiting. The type of accident with

casualties spanning from me to you and

here to there, a potential tragedy, a

stunning unborn disaster. Should I touch

you, I will suffer and you will suffer and

she will suffer. You are a danger zone. I

must not enter. I should not enter.

But I might.

Women who were brought up devout

and fearful

get stirred, like anyone else.

Want men. Want

other women. Stink under the arms at the end of

the day.

Get that all too familiar mix of fear and

discontent

in the night. Want to do the things

that they Must Not Do.

Those dirty, bloody attractive things.

You may have learned from your

mother or any other hunted woman.

Smiling at devils is a useful,

learned thing.

Swallowing discomfort down in

spades

holding it tight in your belly.

Aging on the inside only.

Keeping it forever sexy.

From One

who says, ‘Don’t cry.

You’ll like it after a while.’

And Two who tells you thank you

after the fact and can’t look at your face.

To Three who pays for your breakfast

and a cab home

and your mother’s rent.

To Four

who says,

‘But you felt so good

I didn’t know how to stop.’

To Five who says giving your body

is tough

but something you do very well.

To Six

Who smells of tobacco

and says, ‘Come on, I can feel that

you love this.’

To those who feel bad in the morning

yes,

some feel bad in the morning

and sometimes they tell you

you want it

and sometimes you think that you do.

Thank heavens you’re resetting

ever

setting and

resetting.

How else do you sew up the tears?

How else can the body survive?

This was the story according to her, but then she

could never be trusted. It was safe to say that we

had established this by now.

We had established this on a very regular basis.

On this particular morning, her story and its

various possibilities did corroborate with stories

she had told before, but everything else was out

of sorts.

We were drinking whisky on two stools by the

window.

It was freezing cold and the moon was a tiny slip

of a thing in the sky.

She had woken me up for school far too early or

far too late again. Also, we were trying to avoid

the view.

She was house-proud but not at all garden-proud

and the garden was an embarrassment, even at the

wrong, pitch-black time of day.

Now she was saying that she met my father

somewhere on a large boat. She was working on

the Gold Leaf Cruise liner in nineteen eighty-four.

The way she put it, I could be the child of one of

four, possibly five, but the fifth was not likely due

to timing and the fact that they were interrupted

before the Point of No Return.

However, as she put it

(and never tactfully enough)

accidents do happen.

So here were the four, plus the very slim

possibility.

1. The Captain’s mate

2. The dark-skinned man behind

the bar, or

3. his friend, or

4. his other friend … owing to the

fact that it had been a crazy night

in the middle of a set of six lost,

crazy months and she was

a) going through a great deal.

Heartbreak, namely

b) drinking far too much far too

often.

Furthermore, she did not

subscribe to the theory of

regretting anything. If she did,

she might regret not having more

control over the situation. Also,

most cases like this won’t stand

up in court.

5. (Least likely)

The One she loved.

I felt that I should get up (although you couldn’t

stand up to your full height in our house – do I

call it a house?)

and make a point about going to school, because

she was likely to forget.

‘Anyway,’ she went on. ‘This fettered concept of

motherhood is outdated. You can go and come

back and go and come back and I shall always be

here. I shall always be here. That is real Love for

you, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.’

Then she began to speak in a different language.

Her lover was fast asleep in the bed, too far gone

to move. He had been sick on the pillow and was

drawing some very unsettling snores but as always

she was in her own space, not hearing.

She rested her head on the table and disappeared,

as usual.

I put on my coat, looked over them both and left

for school, or something like it.

When I came back, our house was gone.

Sometimes exactly what you want not to happen

happens anyway.

Loving someone who hates

themselves

is a special kind of violence.

A fight inside the bones.

A war within the blood.

Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love

is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on

itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison.

Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses

other people. Comes back to your bed at four