I Will Not Marry You
because I frighten easily
because I was born once bitten unready for love
and because your head is too small for your body
and your nose somewhat big for your face
and because when you speak a touch of Quechua
all the brown eyes in the street roll sideways
because you could throw a six at will
making me feel like a wasp on sellotape
and because your hanging baskets are too yellow
because you are less than galsy
because together we'd write the book on studied idiocy
and because your breasts are cobwebby piglets
because I keep warm by hugging a room's corners
and because my ankles are rusted Meccano
because you seem the tenth Muse
whose sisters keep all too quiet about her
because my inner puritan still hisses
because when you point out your enemies
I sweat like a ram in a rainstorm
because you employ words out of context
anaesthesia dovetail drumlin
and because I own no suit for you to sneer at
because on your good days you are halfway
to razzamatazz halfway to Ragnarök
because my head is a dead weight
with 1 TON chalked on its dark side
and your throat is the difference in meaning
between systemic and systematic
because when I try to say racecar
the word camel drops from my mouth
and because you write in that thick book of yours
because fame has barely heard us mentioned
because for you romance is way down a list
beginning stitching filing canoeing
because of the white doves which bob and call
nectar songs along your vivid shoulders
because I'll learn to dance with someone
steamier
give me a warring cascade
a pulsing weir a purring cataract
I'd dance with her I'll marry one like that
*Roddy Lumsden has published five books of poetry. He lives in London and teaches for the Poetry School. He is Commissioning Editor for Salt Publishing. Identity Parade, his anthology of recent UK / Irish poetry was published in 2010.