Photographer
It’s a downstairs loo now,
the lodger’s darkroom.
The door’s shifted
from outside to in. It’s as if
his chromatic aberrations
had never been.
Except for one fogged picture
she’s shoved to the back
of her mind. Early morning.
Summer. Hot enough
to sleep naked and hope
her mum’s chapelness doesn’t find out.
Awake, asleep? She opens her eyes
and shuts them again.
Was that the lodger,
kneeling beside her bed?
She could never be sure.
Never said.
And what of him? Fear spasms
in his belly, how many
hours or years did he wait
for his suitcase to land
on the lawn. For the crunch
of her father’s fist.
I love the chromatic aberrations and the one fogged picture. Not sure about her Mum’s chapelness – it seems a little clumsy compared to the rest of the language.
Love the last stanza.
Thanks, Di. Yes, I stumbled over that. At first it said ‘hope/her mum wouldn’t find out’ but then wondered if, in this more free and easy time, people might wonder why nakedness would matter to her mother. Another one for the drawer.
Interestingly, I heard Jonathan Edwards read today as part of Chester Literature Festival and he said he writes poems very quickly then puts them away for six months. Then types them up and edits them. These days, my writing practice almost mirrors that. I scribble something very quickly, then type it up, then put it away.
There were only six people in the audience to hear him, plus three Chester Lit people. A pity, he was very good.
Yes, chromatic aberrations and fogged pictures and memory (or possibly equals memory) Great!