Re[co{ver}] her roar, no more

Yes.  The most amazing time.  I said as much on Facebook last night …

Have to say this is defo the best year of my life.  Not only did I pass my research proposal, and will be able to do my dissertation in 2017, but I also have now been accepted for a paid internship at my uni during the next semester.  Am so grateful to those people who have believed in me, coaxed me to where I now am, helped here and there to a greater and lesser degree: in general, showed me where I was going wrong, and how I might go about doing things right.  Thank you to you all, so very much.

 

 

She’d always close the door to

protect the children from waking up

(when he got up

and made his coffee and her

fasting brake: no early-morning murmurings,

nor soothings nor touchings nor embracings

there or here

nor anywhere

for them, even

then).

 

She’d always close the door to

protect the children from waking up,

but never when he wanted

a gently kindly fuck

(with her).

 

And so he thought for a while,

quite a time, a time and

a half, no laugh or smile meanwhile, that he was

a beast, in full or in part,

without real soul or heart able to love

as was needed or – if

only – pleaded, he’d think; but then always

shrunk from

saying out loud:

always deciding not to ask.

 

 

And so it was seeded, that thought in his head, like

unliked postings, social

and anti-

social both,

dispersed through the ether of either: the

either he

was wrong – or the maybe just plainly bad.

 

 

And then something changed: something

magnificent in his life: the fact that she

protected children so readily from

his early morning awkward clumsy kitchen

noises – unintentionally made, and due

mainly to bleary eyes, hardly (dear readers)

to early-morning sex –

meant little any more to the things he

could practically manage.

 

 

And that was when he realised he’d done

quite enough: enough for a lifetime of

helping and reaching.

If she felt every desire to stop him from

the love that some men and women,

in love, do feel and ex-

press for the other’s tender trembling

bones and skin, of quivering skin,

like arrows in flight,

as heights of life and thriving – not

strife – are hit in glorious

symphonied

synchronicity, the

plausible coincidence of

monumental wish, the tush of a

stroke and the stroke of a sex, and the sex

of a sunny

and helpful

and helpless abandon

and off, those buttons that sputter in moments

of deflection, as I see me in your eyes,

and vice versa your

selves, in parade like familiar

Christmas-times down avenued crowds, and love

actually … yes!

 

 

And so that’s when for him it became clearer

than ever: the truth ultimatumly was

that when she hid

away

behind

doors that

did not close nor open nor move nor

smoothe feckers in any way, she would only

find the weighs to lighten her dark

burden if

able to ask and answer

the call: and if after

twenty-eight years of ever

such trying, the ball no longer knocked turf of glory

from ground at all, there was

nothing at least that he could do

more to embrace this woman

who so long ago

just refused to come, and

roar.

 

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