Lucy Anderton: poem

THE POET TAKES BACK LOVE

There is no dedication page
or rather, it is as empty
as a cheater's kiss. The light shines
through it like sun through sheet water.
He knows that she will wonder why

and where the letters of her name
went. On Holiday? Pulling their
soft bends and edges out to stretch
upon the hot sand? She is not
nameless. He creates her name

with hot sounds on the back
of her neck and on her belly
when he bends and pulls her
body to stretch out on the sheets
that they make dirty in delicious ways.

Her name in his throat feels
like a wing pulling through
an empty lake. It is a name
he has tortured in late thick hours.
Splattered it over impotent pages,

scrambled the letters into a pot,
hunting out a way inside her. As if
her name was a lock. As if it were
that simple. He sucks on her name.
He peels it from the inside

of his eyelids with the burn
of drink. He holds it prisoner
under his tongue. He spills it out
onto his empty belly in her blood.
Not one answer, not even a cough, but


scoffing, like the moon on the long back
she turns on him as she sleeps. It is
a name he can no longer say.
As if it were the name of God.
As if it owned him.

A terrible barrier. With skin
to break open, at last his teeth
are sore. He cannot push past
to her. Can't hold her. So he won't.
Her name hooked from his first

page, leaving her scent, her small
laugh, her finger streaks on his face.
It is his last seduction, a space for
her footprints. Surely in her
perfection she will understand.