in my trance

the air conditioning is on
the cigarette is greying in my palm
the red marks are the burns
you left last year
I am not being taken seriously
I have made these notes for some time
I never expect to see you again
Alison in Ireland you have more of my soul
than you may wish, but if you would kill
me in sleep or in my trance or on
the island as I hold my words in
the remains of these hands
you know the final anger would not be your's
but it would be the fell thought of the time
I left trails of myself upon your
cheeks

From the manuscript Fresh Wounds, circa 1975. I have changed this poem considerably in an attempt to make it more understandable. This would've been just before Alison married the boy from Williamsville, who represented a middle class existence for her. A successful, safe life. I knew at the time that this was an act of giving in to her family and all that was expected of her. Something I would never have asked of her, knowing her intimately, as I did.