Martin

I
My ex-lover who is a man, carried
our baby's coffin to his grave – stumbling.
Later...pissed from one glass of whisky
I collapsed on the bathroom floor,
almost dead I tried to die.

My ex-lover who is a gay man, kicked
the door down, macho style, and
carried me to my bed. My body lay there.
I tried to die.

Watching as from two miles distance
were my eyes.
Watching the still, cold form
on the bed try for death
– my long distant friend.

My long distant friend the Methodist
ministers daughter, said a name but
I couldn't hear. Shouted a name,
I wouldn't hear.
Slapped the face on the body L I Z
SNAPPED BACK HURT HURT
RED HOT RAGE HURT STRANGLED
STRANGLING ON SALT BLOOD BILE I
HURT I HURT I
OH MY GOD MY BABY'S DEAD AND THE PARTY’S IN FULL SWING!


Drink more whisky, roll another joint,
we even gave my mother one.
An hysterical party in honour of Martin –
named for a bird, he flew away after
fourteen months. I should have guessed.


I looked at my daughter – still living
at my ex-lover – still living
at myself – still living
futures, still to be lived,
my mother ate toast all day
and a sister brought 100 cigs
thinking we may be in need. Oh yes.
Everyone sat, talked, laughed, moved forward.

II
To know me now you have to know
that Martin’s death made me.
The woman you see now –
the dyke in a dress with raw bulging eyes
and tinted glasses for concealment,
the grief ridden lonely woman
who feels sorry for herself
so writes poetry for comfort,
– she didn’t exist before Martin died.

(c) Liz Willows 2000