reparations

she's so alone in her funny funny room
with her postcards and her coitus interruptus
plans but she's known she'll see me soon
catafalqued, bumped by the dark and she'll
remember she would never tell me
what I desperately needed to know

so now she closes all the windows
seeks the space beneath her table
writes no more postcards
makes no more pleasurable noises
takes her football player for masochistic sex
(his angelic fantasies understood)
the memories of that previous life
are fading for her
leprosy striking the heart first
then lops off the fingers
a kindness, a silence


Alison was married most of the time I knew her to a man named JL. I only met him a couple of times along the way. I couldn't describe him to you, though I could tell you a lot about how they got along and what he liked to do. One of his big interests was in playing Rugby. He played with a team who prided themselves on getting thrown out of bars. Alison lied to him pretty much constantly the entire time I was around. She lied to me, too. And probably to everybody who ever knew her. Now that she's a lawyer she can apply this skill professionally.