I found myself facedown on the floor in the bathroom of my tiny east-German apartment with my cheek pressed against the ***** tiles and it certainly wasn’t the first bathroom I’ve found myself facedown in but it was the furthest one from home and I turned over and watched moisture beads gel on the underside of the sink and when I stared hard enough one looked a little like an elephant and it was a bad joke but I laughed anyway because it was just moisture beads and the only elephant in the room was me.

Never the woman,
always the other woman.
She-poets have sung of it since
they first gave words
to the wet knot of their hearts.

The consolation prize, the late-comer
who must be the one to wash his
***** hands. Not a goddess but
the amazon who presses on his
body’s weakest points. The villainess.

The other woman has no power.
He doesn’t need to know her name,
her fears, which books made her cry as
a girl. He already has his golden idol,
but he wants a clay vessel on the side.

He doles her out careful smiles under
pinkblue bar-lights or in smoky kitchens.
He tells her yes you’re beautiful
but I’ve got a better one at home still
can I see the shape you make in my bed?

And she is hopeful and lost
but finds his arm and lets herself be led.
Never the woman, but a girl who
plays games in the mud, dirties her dress,
blacks out her face, her soiled lips.

And women speak of the other woman
like she is a crow above their doors.
Watching them make their love
through greedy eyes while
nursing her barbed and tangled heart.

Isolde stands at the window
of her old room. Her mother
and sister sit around the small

white table, talking to Tristana.
Cobwebs hang from the metal
curtain rail, a dead spider hangs

like a dead parachutist, a dried
up fly on the white painted
windowsill. The first few days

out of the asylum seem odd,
seem to unbalance her. Tristana
seems engaging well with her

icy mother, her sister looks on
anxiously. My room, she had
told Tristana. My bed, she had

added pointing to the bed
pushed against a wall. In the
asylum, some weeks back,

she and Tristana had ******.
The fat nurse had caught them
and reported. There had been

giggles and guffaws in the staff
room afterwards. Now she and
Tristana were free, government

clearout, new policy, economical
necessities. She stares at her
mother’s head move from side

to side, her jaw opening and
closing like the shark she was.
Just a quick visitation, she said.

Her mother’s eyes and mouth
opened with shock when they
turned up. Not staying, she had

informed. Visiting the once, she
had said. Her mother seemed
relieved, her sister white as a

sheet, nodded her head like
some cheap doll. The room
was cold, colder than before.

She’d been taken from here
those years back, screaming,
held between men in white,

out into the cold night. Be gone
soon, she mutters, rubbing a
finger down the pane of glass,

making a rude noise, all heads
turn toward her room from
the garden below. Goodbye
old room, time for us to go.

Willie’s walked to the village,
Dottie sits darning stockings
by the window, her nimble

fingers pulling and pushing
the yarn through the cloth.
Sunlight brightens up the

length of her lap, warms
her fingers, brings touch
of Heaven. She pauses,

holds needle in mid sew,
watches a butterfly, Red
Admiral, flitter by the

window’s square. If only
Willie was there. He was
up early, up and out in

the garden’s span, digging
and planting, she watching,
taking in his moving arms,

his steady hands. She still
feels the damp place his
kiss gave, on forehead above

her brow, feels it still, anyhow.
She resumes the darning of
her brother’s cloth, the sharp

needle pulled and pushed,
the fingers holding firm, the
in and out, of the narrowing

hole, the closing up. She looks
at the trees, the slight sway
of arms, the green covered

fingers, how she and Willie
sat beneath by the near shore,
sheltered by tall willows, the

sea view soaking their eyes, his
hand in hers, birdsong, distant
ship on horizon’s brow. If only
Willie was here, was here now.

Yes, there were flowers and wreaths,
Black dresses, suits, and ties,
And you were shown the place
Where she would lie beside those
She never knew, beneath a stone
Like so many others, the words
Would be chiselled, the flowers placed,

The prayers said, the visitations frequent,
At least at first, but there was that element
Of unrealness of it all, like a surreal painting
Or play, as if all were small bit actors
In some awkward part, genuine in their grief,
In the hurt and loss felt, in the agony
Of the one lost, but feeling it odd,

That she, whom all had loved,
And seemingly blessed by her God,
Should be one moment here and full of life
And laughter, but then be silenced,
Struck dumb, have eyes closed, ears sealed
And stuffed, her limbs stiffened, her hands
Cold and still no longer to hold or bless

Or caress or heal, her heart no more to beat
Or feel, her brain no more to think
Or be the home of thought, and those
Features that all remembered well
In her face, should be gone, and only
Memories left to fill some small part
Of that emptiness within, that huge dark space.

Christina was standing
by the school gym
her satchel over
her shoulder

her hand gripping
the strap
her hair windswept
when she saw you coming

she smiled nervously
and said
I wondered
if you’d come this way

why?
you asked
she took your arm
and pulled you

into the gym
and let the door
close behind you
the gym was empty

there were voices
and the sound
of people passing
along the passageway

need to see you
she whispered
why?
you asked

I don’t see you
unless I stop you
in the school somewhere
or on the playing field

if the weather’s nice
you gazed
around the gym
at the apparatus

the ropes
the mats
she continued talking
her voice whispering

you looked at her
her eyes dark
and staring
why here?

you asked
we can be alone
for a while
she said

she took hold
of one of your hands
and looked at it
and rubbed her thumb

over the skin
you’re only 13
you said
you’re only 14

she replied
she placed your hand
to her cheek
we’re going to be late

for our next lessons
you said
so?
she replied

you sensed her lips
on your hand
her body moving
closer to you

then she kissed your cheek
then stood there
her mouth slightly open
thank you

you whispered
she smiled
and went out
the gym door

and along
the passageway
you stood gaping
at the ropes

and mats
and the high windows
and a blue sky

and heard voices
calling from the playground
from kids at play
just another moment

you mused
just another day.

Helen looked up
at the rain drenched sky
as you both stood
under the extended roof

of the coal wharf
off of Meadow Row
she had on
her dark blue raincoat

with the hood
which was over
her head
and her thick lens glasses

enlarged her eyes
as she peered out
looks like
it’s in for the day

you said
pulling your coat
around you
to keep out

the chill
just as well
I didn’t bring my doll
Battered Betty

she said
she hates the rain
you stared out
at the downpour

it seemed endless
why does it have to rain
on a Saturday?
Why not a school day?

you said
Helen took off
her glasses
and wiped them

on a small white
handkerchief
you watched her
as she wiped them

her small hands
at work
the glasses
being cleaned

and cleared
you look pretty
when you’re wet
you said

she looked at you
do I?
she said
sure you do

you said
but not otherwise?
she asked
you looked at her

as she put on
her glasses again
well you look prettier
you added

staring once more
at the rain
no one’s said
I was pretty before

she said
they usually
call me four eyes
or horsey teeth

well you’re pretty
you said shyly
not wanting to get in
too deep

a horse drawn
coal wagon
went by
as you both stood

beneath
the extended roof
the horse trotting
along in the puddles

on the cobblestones
the driver
staring sternly
into the pouring rain

you wiped raindrops
from your nose
and flicked them
into the air

am I really?
she asked
gazing at you
the hood of her coat

framing her face
yes
you said
and your teeth

are fine
don’t worry
what others say
and she put

her arm under yours
as you looked away.

With sudden fury, madness rang through the air
just then a flock of glorious birds
so free in bluest skies, flew by
and we away with them
Now gone from sight
our earthly bodies,
become winged spirits
angels taking flight

Two mental breakdowns
In as many years;
The ECT, she
Knows too well; the dark

Corridors; the sharp
Broken mirrors, all
Reflecting different
Selves; the slashed wrist;

Bath-almost-drowning
Business; the white
Coated nurse and docs
And the tricks up their

Long thin sleeves; and the
Emptiness inside
With the long slow fall
Into that so long

Awaited and wished for
Oblivion and
No more echoes from
The sad ghostly dead.

The sight of snow
from the window
of the locked ward

made the room
feel cold even though
the radiators were on

that’s how I feel inside
Christine said
as she stood beside you

looking out
her hand touching the glass
of the windowpane

it was a warm summer’s day
when I was jilted
at the altar

she added
breathing on the glass
so that it smeared up

now look at it
she put her hand
down by her side

and wiped the dampness
on her dressing gown
why didn’t he show up?

you asked
he sent a message
saying he changed his mind

she said
just like that?
she looked at you

her eyes watery
yes just like that
she said

and here I am
locked in this ward
because my mind

is ******
and my nerves
are shattered

she looked away
and stared out
at the trees

and fields
covered in snow
and shot up by ECT

you said
she went silent
and wiped her eyes

on a tissue
I can still feel
the headache

from the last shot
you said
supposed to help

you forget
the quack said
she whispered

but it doesn’t work
she laid her head
on your shoulder

I wouldn’t take off
my wedding dress
for days afterwards

she said
her voice vibrating
along your arm

and wouldn’t eat
a magpie flew
from one tree

to another
disturbing snow
her hand found yours

and she held it
and gave a squeeze
we were going

to get married
live in a big house
and have our

2 point five children
she said
he was a creep

you said
not worth all this
she looked at you

and gave your cheek
a small wet kiss
in a distant field

a tractor ploughed
with white and black birds
following behind

welcome
she said
to the house of the blind.