A play without my voice
(after Under Milk Wood)
Somewhere between the fishing boats,
up a lane you do not mention, in the terrace
with no name, lies the woman you've forgotten.
There was no thou shalt not about us in the night,
no god-fearing to our bonkety-bonking in my bed.
But I drowned good and proper in your head.
Why no mention, lovely boy, of your pretty girl,
the one who wrote your story in gin and kisses,
the one you folded into your urgent sighs.
Why don't I appear disguised as a bird,
a cat, a low moan in your throat, or just
a name scratched rough on a discarded boat.
When you couldn't raise a sail that once, didn't
come like a storm in the bay, of course I knew.
I stroked your bare-faced cheek, cried a little wet
into the pillow, thought I had earned a sentence.
No, nothing. Jollyrodgered like a torn, faded flag,
your bird on the wing, just a cormorant or shag.
Pat Edwards is a writer, reviewer and workshop leader from mid Wales. Her work has appeared in Magma, Prole, IS&T, Atrium and other magazines. She hosts Verbatim open mic and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival. Her debut pamphlet, Only Blood, was published in 2019 by Yaffle. Her next, Kissing in the Dark, is due out this year with Indigo Dreams.