Folie a Deux
They call it pica
this ranging after alien tastes:
acorns (the good fresh country food,
better than I've remembered)
that morning in the wood,
and moonlit roses-
perfumed lettuce, rather unpleasant:
we rinsed them from our teeth with wine.
it seemed a shared perversion,
not just a kink of mine-
you were the one
who nibbled the chrysanthemums.
Allright we are avoiding something.
Tonight you are here early.
We seem to lack nothing.
We are alone,
quiet, unhurried. The whisky has
a smoky tang, like dark chocolate
you speak of ceremony, of
something to celebrate.
I hear the church bells
and suddenly fear the blasphemy,
even name it. The world's unusual
between us. But you don't laugh.
We postpone our ritual.
and act another:
sit face to face across the table
talk about places we have known
and friends who are still alive
and poems (not our own)
It works. We are altered
from that fey couple who talked out
fountains of images, spray
of loves, deaths, dramas, jokes:
their histories; who lay
manic with words.
fingers twined in each other's hair
(no closer) wasting nights and hours;
who chewed, as dry placebos
those bitter seeds and flowers.
It is the moment.
We rise and touch at last. And now
without pretence or argument.
fasting, and in our right minds,
go to our sacrament.