the first bind of Saint Eurydice
She seems not to be affected by the gouge. Her eyes blink quickly, trying to protect her from the ammonia. It is not fear that makes her eyes so agitated, she is pregnant with calm, and more than once has met me as we are. Her hair has been through a days work, long lost is the look she left in her own peaceful bathroom. But there has been many hours since then. The ingrained wear of the day on her body is part of what I seek. Where she soaped and preened it would not be the same. Erroneous hairs creep from her, they asked to be pulled out.
I reply “a good woman is but like one eel in a bag amongst 500 snakes and if a man should have the luck to grope out that one eel from all the snakes yet he hath at best but a wet eel by the tail.” I can see her tongue sticky between her beak. Clearly she is showing it to me. Her breath will be turned. Her shirts says Tamerlane. It is a fine eye to protect her belly button, where once something was torn free.
I have four strips of shirt in my right fist. I tore the arms from my own. I broke the collar. I destroyed the seam. I have four white lashes in my hand that hang the length of my arms. She comes forward of her own accord and stops before I can touch her. I circle and let her step into the space I stood just moments before, I slip my shoulder and wheel away like a turning horse. The grace of the evasion pleases her. She could not reach out and touch me without my touching her first. I am with my back to the door. I can leave now, of course, but… there are twelve more to come.
* SJ Fowler is a member of the Writers Forum poetry group and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary European poetry into the English language. www.sjfowlerpoetry.com www.maintenant.co.uk
