He’s gone off to war once more.
Polly has seen him leave from
an upstairs window. Master George
in his smart uniform getting into
the family car. He looked up at her
and took of his hat. No one else
looked thank God. Now she has
to sleep in the attic with Susie again
and not with George and his
warm loving ways and beautiful sex.
She stands by the window until
the car is out of sight. No more ***
for her tonight. Susie had the sulks
for the days she slept alone, the
cold sheets, the lone pillow, none
to hug and hold against the cold.
Polly walks from the window with
her mop and bucket and enters
the room where they’d lain the
night before and mops the floor.
She imagines he is still there in his
bed, the pillow embracing his dark
haired head, his eyes soaking her in,
drinking her up. She wants now to
imagine him putting his hands about
her waist, squeezing, kissing her neck,
the damp patches on her skin. War
mustn’t maim him or **** him, she
mutters, moving the mop, war must
not take him from me. The bedroom
window is open to the morning air.
She leaves the mop and sniffs the
pillow where he lies no more. Her
cheek lies where he lay; she can sense
his smell, sniff him into her head, wanting
him back and whole, not lying in No Man’s
Land wounded or dead. Dudman the butler
calls her name, along the passageway,
his footsteps treading, bellowing like a
cow in labour, she grabs the mop and
mops away, saves her thoughts of George
and love and *** for another day.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
He’s gone off to war once more.
Polly has seen him leave from
an upstairs window. Master George
in his smart uniform getting into
the family car. He looked up at her
and took of his hat. No one else
looked thank God. Now she has
to sleep in the attic with Susie again
and not with George and his
warm loving ways and beautiful sex.
She stands by the window until
the car is out of sight. No more ***
for her tonight. Susie had the sulks
for the days she slept alone, the
cold sheets, the lone pillow, none
to hug and hold against the cold.
Polly walks from the window with
her mop and bucket and enters
the room where they’d lain the
night before and mops the floor.
She imagines he is still there in his
bed, the pillow embracing his dark
haired head, his eyes soaking her in,
drinking her up. She wants now to
imagine him putting his hands about
her waist, squeezing, kissing her neck,
the damp patches on her skin. War
mustn’t maim him or **** him, she
mutters, moving the mop, war must
not take him from me. The bedroom
window is open to the morning air.
She leaves the mop and sniffs the
pillow where he lies no more. Her
cheek lies where he lay; she can sense
his smell, sniff him into her head, wanting
him back and whole, not lying in No Man’s
Land wounded or dead. Dudman the butler
calls her name, along the passageway,
his footsteps treading, bellowing like a
cow in labour, she grabs the mop and
mops away, saves her thoughts of George
and love and *** for another day.
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