Eye of the Storm
Everything is dark
apart from the lightning in the sky that pours
into our space. I lie on my belly on your bed
as you stand by the window wowing at the thunder
and I’m even jealous of the sky.
A woman we both admire asked me once, ‘why
do you always write about blood?’
And today was like any other day, we
hurt each other and healed each other
as though to have an excuse
to apologise, to declare
our love. This is not bdsm – there is no safe word,
no shiny pvc, no lightning whip, it has no tedious formula
it’s not dirty, it is filthy; it is love.
We ate olives and almonds, watched
a sapphic film with a sad ending, painted our nails
neon green, and listened to the rain, and I recalled a dead friend
who said, ‘nobody howls like Heathcliff from love, it would be
hilarious in the age of Tinder,’ and maybe I’m in agreement, but not today.
You open the window to the dark rain, and as the electricity
slaughters the sky, you howl and I notice I’ve never been so calm.