Sabre
Budget jeans, and stubble,
a lean face more bone than meat
is all I remember of the grown-up
enigma in our dorm, reeking of serious,
stunted in manner, yet sure of himself.
Once in blossom, out came a failed
marriage, temper temper, domestic
violence. This mature student
who called himself Sabre, after the blade,
a veteran of the Falklands war,
lost our confidence and trust
on VE day when he, magician-like,
pulled out a house plant and called it therapy,
declared himself an alcoholic and
drank beyond his fill, falling
and knocking his head on the table,
spilling his blood like morse code,
a message that led to his den.
Weeks passed in which we heard
nothing. The door to his room was
locked, the curtains pulled down.
Being the tidy one, the kitchen fell
into disrepair, dishes filled the sink,
and mould grew up to reach
its prime. Unnerved, by the chaos,
we broke into his room to find him
blacked out in the shadows by his bed,
so many plastic bottles and bags,
the pungent smell of the body’s pureness.
I wish I could say I did him good but when he
couldn’t walk I stocked him right back up
with booze. He forgave everything but
that game of Tenpin bowling. Inebriated,
he couldn’t believe that anyone
could roll the ball so badly,
that I must have rigged it
so he would win the match
but all the mistakes were mine,
nothing was faked.
Raoul Izzard is a 37-year-old English teacher, dog owner, and plasticine animator living in Barcelona with his wonderful wife, Susana. He moved to the city in 2007 to do a teaching course and decided to stay. He can be found at Inklings and Devlings on WordPress.