Jane

 

Jane

 

Some student saw it first,

and, in gay abandon,

asked why - somewhat random

about nothing in something much,

just an old school tie, chucked

rumpled of the Old Bailey

in my desk drawer -

black with white footballs

stitched on the blade,

and I’m thinking old scores -

nothing Charlton, nothing Wolves,

nothing Rams, nothing Bulls,

just old friends, old schools.

It doesn’t take much, does it?

Setting off that chain reaction,

more of a Diana Ross,

than a meltdown at Chernobyl,

more of a Lulu hitched to

a Brothers Gibb with falsetto

than anything more substantial.

It was you, Jane, you - boxed it,

gave it, smiled, squeezed,

asked me if I was pleased,

if it was thoughtful or on the nose,

while how fast red roses

there did bloom, not fade

as Lysander would have had it.

Years ago, down past

and who was it who knew

this old thing would last,

would have so much blood in it

and make it halfway across

the world of love,

the world of loss?

And inside, I felt him smile – Chris –

long dead, who longed to kiss

you but never did

and called you his Billie Piper.

So, called to action,

I messaged, remembering,

well, how could I forget?

But all of you have slept

deep in my memory so long now

I felt reluctant, somehow.

I cut it off, that part of me,

deliberate and precise

and used old Seigfried’s hoofing knife,

bled and cauterized my feet.

But here’s a lead, a binding tie

you’d noose around my neck

to make a mockery of regret.