This is the violent hour
Neither elegant with cocktails
Nor freshened with anticipation
Nor raucous with the turned out pubs
Where petty jealousies spill onto the street
With fists thrown like confetti
And we all get married in the morning.
This is the quiet hour
Not even a background of birdsong
Maybe a Vespa in the distance
But not so loud it drowns the sound
Of footsteps closing in.
You can’t speed up in those heels
But to take them off you’d have to stop
And already you can hear his breathing.
This is the felicitous hour
When doors shut, and curtains close
And you’re alone with what you used to love
But barely recognise and can’t contain.
And the sting on your cheek is not as bad
As wondering with what horror he will follow
And whether knowing yourself only by
The feel of a fist and its mark
You’ll be broken with the crockery in the dark.
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Stephen Linstead
Photo Nick Victor
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