November
by Claire Meadows
On the roof, each crack was anger, but I wanted it,
to taste the fuse, bitter, and hot. Sweet with the past.
Finch, can’t you see it now? Your eyes were tender
More than I needed, but enough to make me sweet, on that
November night. Creeping, like your autograph, silver on a photograph.
I tore the original, threw it as the tide came in.
Because all at once I hated you, fierce, stigmata eyes of fate
Deep wells for you to taste, You, with your Catholic guilt.
Calling to my body, ‘treason’ and your voice,
As if from the start of you, A wave chorus,
For my country boy. That night, thick with powder, fury
Flames, and the petulance of your mouth
I dowsed you in memory, wine and you, vivid, dangerous
Delicate you, saw through me like no other.