Teresa White
JOURNEY
If I go tomorrow
with my toothbrush
and underpants,
do not follow.
Lace multiplies in the hands
of old women.
I shall make lace
and eat avocados
like pears over the kitchen sink,
their green gold butter in my mouth.
Of course I’ll miss you
but there are telephones
and string tied to tin cans.
All our friends are married
and waltz their arguments out
into the street under an indifferent moon.
I’ll rent a flat somewhere
in some smoky city in the north of Ireland
or in a sultry shack where I’ll sing
Mississippi delta blues.
I’ll return, come back, reunite –
be yours again but I won’t be the same.
We’ll spend the rest of our lives
getting to know each other.
You’ll tie me to the bed with silk scarves;
I’ll walk around all day in a robe
wearing nothing underneath.
We might even drift together
like two planets
dangerously close to collision.
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