Last Dance

by Harriet Torr

It’s not so much the wallpaper’s different
more that the viewing angles changed;
me and Jim high, high in the air
dancing over the bed where our bodies lie
stacked between years of innuendos;
the things we didn’t say or do
whilst we lived in the painted house by the weir.
 
Today, we can get closer than ordinary air can allow;
me in my muslin dress with flesh coloured curves,
you in your high ended black satin,
your skin like jasmine seed, shifting in the moon’s blue,
the pomegranate folds of your fingers cutting me through;
fox-trotting under the rafter of stars, its plasterboard of sounds,
insistent as the weathering of violins in broken backyards.
 
Your mirror’s eye sees me as I was,
a bright girl breaking the branches down
with the swirl of her skirt,
pollen rich for the love of kings
a painted butterfly caught in its truckle and flounce,
deceiving the bumble bee, the fat stave of its heart
crescending from flower leaf to tip.
 
I press my eye closer to your heart
to note its design, the nuts and bolts of its beginning,
whilst the music draws to its close.
I hold your hand, trace your life line
ended now in mine, the hand
I last saw pocketless on a slab
as stern morticians handed me back your glove.